A Thousand Stairs
by Kyilliki
Summary: Eternity is intended for the beautiful, the curious and the strange. Aro and Sulpicia: a series of vignettes. .:complete:.
1. dream

**Fandom:** Twilight

**Characters/Pairings: **Aro/ Sulpicia

**Author's Note:** Aro and Sulpicia are perhaps the most unpopular Volturi couple which, of course, makes me want to write about them. Each vignette is going to be approximately 500 words long, and I'm going to try and put them in some sort of chronological order. Because of the length, I think I'll be able to update at least once a week (said the author hopefully).

* * *

**.:dream:.**

Sulpicia has never dreamed, not even as a child. Sleep is oblivion, death in miniature, nothing more. When little Terentius stumbles into her room, mumbling about the ghosts and monsters that his nightmares have promised him, she coos sweet, older-sister comfort into his ear and allows him to press his chilly feet against her shins as he dozes beside her, without understanding.

Then, when she is sixteen (_a tentative young lady and a definite beauty)_, everything goes topsy-turvy and _he_ begins appearing. She'd like to believe that her night-time visitor is an illusion conjured up by her imagination, but she has none. By that logic, he must be real.

She does not know what to think of him. At first, he is a shadow, inhabiting the corners of her room, coming and going with the moon. The watery light does strange things to his skin—it shimmers like quartz, not quite distracting her sleepy thoughts from the fact that his irises are crimson.

She could scream, she supposes, and everyone would hear but nobody would believe. Instead, she lies still. The next morning, there is a tiny red flower on the pillow beside her. She takes it between long fingers and tucks it into her hair.

The night-creature seems to take this as a sign of consent. He sits near her and takes her hand, his eyes looking out into the middle distance. Sulpicia does not know what he is searching for, but her questions come out jumbled by sleep and he merely smiles and whispers something reassuring. The words are too quick and quiet to hear.

After a few months of this, she finds a cherry-bright ribbon beside her. It is clear to her now; if she accepts the scrap of silk, her visitor will return. It would be foolish to keep it, she knows, but the sensation of his cool fingertips against the curve of her palm is intoxicating. She loops the ribbon around her wrist and wonders why it echoes the colour of blood so well.

He brushes his lips over her eyelids now, and flutters innocent caresses over her collarbones. They do not speak, because she is supposed to be pretending that this is a dream.

On the last night _(somewhere between her seventeenth and eighteenth birthday)_, he slips a thin chain around her neck. The pendant is a single stone, vivid as a pomegranate seed. She does not feign sleep this time.

"My name is Aro. Will you come with me?" The man who is not quite human extends a hand, and beautiful Sulpicia takes it.

* * *

Aro is a bit of a creep, watching Sulpicia sleep. Ah well, it's a time-honored vampire tradition. Let me know what you think about this, and any ideas you have for future vignettes.


	2. watch

**Author's Note:** A huge thank-you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter. I'm still amazed that people want to read about Aro and Sulpicia.

* * *

**.:watch:.**

The dress Sulpicia wears is the colour of bruised plums. Layers of gauzy purple cling to her, sticky and sodden, though the crimson stains are not so noticeable in the candle's half-light. The blood that once caked her lips and peppered her high cheekbones has mostly been wiped away, but a few stubborn droplets still cling to her eyelashes like distorted gems.

_Don't worry, darling,_ she remembers Didyme saying, in her gentle, falling-silver voice. _Everyone looks absolutely awful after their first hunt. _There is too much sweetness surging in her tone, reminding Sulpicia of ripe fruit bursting underfoot in high summer. She knows that she doesn't deserve the simple trust and affection already given to her by the sister of the man who transformed her, so she excuses herself as quickly as possible, citing a need for privacy and a change of clothes.

-

The library is still, and the air smells of torches, cobwebs and silence. Sulpicia is not quite certain how she found her way there, but it does not matter. She wanders through the precariously balanced stacks, searching (_though she is uncertain what she is intending to find)._

She hears papyrus rustle, and follows the sound. Perhaps she will meet someone who will treat her with honesty, because she does not need compassion.

Immediately, a thrill of recognition shivers and jolts through her, beginning at the arches of her fingertips and reaching her still heart. She remembers his face better than her own.

_Aro_.

She wants to speak with him immediately, because she wants the comfort of something familiar. Although he may have no answers, she is certain his voice and touch will be enough to reassure her, even with bloodlust's dull ache pounding at her temples.

_I don't know him_. The thought is cold and unwelcome, but it stops Sulpicia. The fragments of her mind that are unchanged by immortality and bloodlust tell her to watch.

Aro reads with his nose a little too close to the words, like a child engrossed in a story. His eyes are alight, and enthusiasm transforms his features from the noble asceticism of her mortal memories into something vividly alive, almost naively joyous. Thin hands flutter restlessly at the scroll's edges, as though he is impatient for whatever knowledge the ancient text can offer him.

She cannot help staring; he is startlingly beautiful in this unguarded moment (_and she tries not to imagine those fingers tracing their way around the sensitive hollows of her throat)_. Still, faint shadows remain in his gaze—she recognizes them as the loneliness of one who has spent his life defined by superlatives. For an instant, she wants to throw her arms around him, and tell him that she understands the hollowness of being considered the best, the most beautiful, the most powerful.

The impulse passes, and she remembers that she is nothing but a girl in an ill-fitting, bloodstained dress. She has nothing to say to an immortal.

Hoping he does not hear the susurrus of fabric against stone, Sulpicia ghosts away.

* * *

As always, I appreciate suggestions for future chapters, because I'm making up the plot as I go along.


	3. distraction

**.:distraction:.**

Aro does not need a mate. He repeats this to himself (_a chant, a prayer, a lie)_. One thousand years have passed, and he has seen unimaginable beauty and power to rival his own in the minds of women, but nothing has tempted him for long.

Now, watching the play of dawn's light on his pale hands, his mind wanders down its own twisted paths, arriving at the same destination—a contemplation of _her_, in all her ethereal, snow-and-spun-gold grace.

Sulpicia is lovely; that goes almost without saying. Her beauty is the sort that should be immortalized in epics, the kind that could launch a thousand ships or perhaps ten thousand (_if only she smiled)_. He finds himself drawn to it like a careless moth to an inferno, and stranger yet, he does not object.

Her appearance may have caught him, but it is the distorted crystal of her mind that binds him. Beneath the sweet, too-vivid adolescence of her thoughts, there is something else waiting. Intelligence, almost military in its precision, shines behind wide eyes softened only slightly by childlike curiosity. He perceives pragmatic cruelty staining the corners of her memories like blood at the hem of a cloak, and the innocent joy that conceals it so well.

When he takes her hand, all he sees is himself, eerily reflected and refracted by the broken mirror of Sulpicia's gaze.

Aro wants to tell her everything, letting the words pour out clumsy and unplanned, but something holds him back. He has heard many passionate declarations of love, and his response has always been a gentle (_pitying_) smile. Something new and brittle near the region of his heart could not bear it if that same expression appeared on her features.

He flounders with fantasy, imagining her lips against his, caught between a kiss and a laugh. Such a simple image curls around his head for hours, and leaves him clutching for some semblance of order, a vague memory of a world before Sulpicia.

-

"Isn't she beautiful, Cai?" The words are threadbare, a pale imitation of the blaze Aro feels in his chest.

Knowing trouble when he sees it, Caius rolls his eyes and mumbles something about the number of love-struck idiots increasing, then advises Aro to go talk to Marcus, who has more expertise in that field.

Aro knows that it's hopeless (_he's hopeless)_ as soon as he can't find a remark, clever or otherwise, to make in reply.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This chapter was sort of sappy, I know. I wanted to emphasize the intensity of Aro's feelings, and perhaps hint that Sulpicia is never going to return them quite the same way...


	4. art

**.:art:.**

Immortality, Sulpicia discovers, is filled with long stretches of tedium. There are scrolls to occupy her time, but not much more. She cannot wander through the city in daylight, and even in the darkness, she must move like a wraith _(stories of an exquisite ghost with eyes like wildfire have been exchanged among the mortals—she is not cautious enough)_.

Sometime during an afternoon slow and sticky as honey, she finds herself playing with Didyme. They run down long corridors, shrieking with laughter, then let their feet slide on the smooth floors. A few vases haven been bowled over, but they can't quite bring themselves to feel guilty.

As the halls streak and blur past her, Sulpicia notices that one seems to be filled with statues and the dull gleam of metals. She has always been drawn to art, but she puts the thought aside: Marcus has just turned the corner, and she's certain that he is about to be knocked down.

-

Moonlight transforms the castle into a flickering dreamscape, and Sulpicia is both startled and drawn to the shadows. She wanders through porticos, in and out of courtyards, until she enters the gallery housed in the long corridor.

Every piece of art is astounding; she cannot help but grin when she sees Marcus' sensitive eyes, Didyme's sunshine-smile, and Caius' insistent scowl so accurately depicted in stone, bronze and terracotta. Aro is more difficult to pin down, and she can see the artists fumbling, struggling to capture the inhuman mystery before them. She can sympathize.

"Good evening," Aro murmurs, appearing directly behind her, a whisper of dark fabric and darker hair.

"This statue is my favourite," she says, indicating a marble bust of Aro which almost does him justice. It is so much easier to speak in non-sequiturs.

"The sculptor was quite gifted. Unfortunately, I think Caius may have eaten him."

She laughs, and then stops suddenly. This is her world now, where blood and beauty go hand in hand. Feeling out of place, a child wandering through a mausoleum, she turns to him with helplessness in her eyes.

Aro acts without thinking, and extends a hand. Sulpicia's fingers interlace with his, bringing with them an eddy of images and words. There is loneliness in her mind, silent and cold as November rain, while unanswered questions shimmer and spiral away before he can quite grasp them.

"No, you shouldn't—" he says, then stops, because her mouth is pressed over his. It is clumsy, tentatively tender as all first kisses are. A few moments pass while they bump noses, trying to adjust to each other's proximity (_kissing while standing on tip-toe isn't quite as easy as Marcus and Didyme make it look)_. Sulpicia isn't certain why she wants to (_needs to)_ bridge the emptiness between them, but the warmth sparking through her is an incentive to continue.

Resting her head on Aro's shoulder, she glances at him and feels a giddy, silly smile (_a perfect replica of his expression_) bloom across her lips. She doesn't know it, but her irises are a deep, still black, from passion or bloodlust or something entirely different.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Aww, Aro and Sulpicia fluff. I can't believe that I just wrote that. Then again, I frequently see people comment that they can't really imagine Aro and Sulpicia as lovers, so this vignette is part of my plan to change that.

Let me know what you think, pretty please.


	5. rain

**.:rain:.**

It is raining.

Chilly drops patter and slide down red stone, filling ancient corridors with endless, dreary echoes. The storm snarls and hisses, a discontented house-cat, but Aro does not mind. Afternoons like these are spent alone in his study, among maps and paperweights, inks and tablets (_the flotsam and jetsam of a silent empire)_.

Today, however, is an exception.

Sulpicia stumbles in from a hunt, her cloak and hair sodden. She is still a newborn, after all, and thunder is not enough to discourage bloodlust. Something about her is endearing: perhaps her wild, honey-gold hair spiralling in mad curls or the way blood is freckled across her nose. Aro cannot help it; he invites her inside his study though he knows that the carpet is really too old to be trod on by wet feet, that ink will fade if her hands come too close.

She is curled in his arms now (_the fit isn't comfortable because the chair is intended for a solitary scholar, not uncertain lovers_) and he marvels at how quickly the boundaries between _mine_ and _ours_ have shifted and bled away.

"What were you doing before I came in?" she asks, only a breath of sound against his neck.

He gestures to the map in front of him, intricate, almost artistic in its exactitude.

"You are planning attacks, conquest and hostile takeovers, yes?"

"We prefer to call it imperial expansion. It makes us sound slightly less frightening." He brushes light fingers along the inside of her wrist, pleased to see the momentary shiver his touch elicits. Her mind, however, is preoccupied with the notes he has scrawled at the corners of the map.

"Who are Stefan and Vladimir?" she wonders, stumbling as she pronounces the foreign names.

"Perhaps it is easiest to explain thus: if we are immortal royalty, Stefan and Vladimir are something akin to gods."

She grins widely, "And you are preparing a brilliant plot to overthrow them, no doubt."

He nods reluctantly, wondering how this woman (_young by mortal standards, a child by vampiric consideration)_ can read him so easily. "My plans are far from brilliant, dear one. The ruling coven has members with formidable gifts, which we cannot rival yet."

Her thoughts darken and twist suddenly, because she considers herself useless, an ornament with no abilities.

He wants to cuddle her then, to reassure her that she is perfect and precious and _his_, but he stops himself. Sulpicia does not know about his gift, and a sudden demonstration of mind-reading is sure to startle her.

"You're lovely," he whispers, mouth barely grazing her throat. For the first time in a handful of centuries, Aro finds himself believing the pretty words slipping out so easily between his lips.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Poor Sulpicia doesn't know about Aro's gift... there's going to be an awkward chapter in the near future.

I'm also considering writing a lime in a few chapters. It won't be particularly explicit, as I'm trying to keep the rating at T, nor will it be long, given my 500 word drabble length. How do you guys feel about that?


	6. advice

**.:advice:.**

As the months pass, Sulpicia finds herself being pushed into Aro's arms, with quiet, unintentional persistence.

-

"You do know that Aro turned you to be his mate?" Caius poses the question bluntly, his tone exasperated, as though he is teaching complex arithmetic to a toddler.

Sulpicia nods, wondering why the surly vampire is suddenly taking an interest in her relationships, of all things.

"You clearly like each other. Can't you… act on it, please? You avoid him, and then he mopes. You two are unbearable."

She considers this for a moment, then quickly asks, "Aro is _moping_?" The dark-haired vampire has always seemed ecstatically, intoxicatingly happy to her.

"Sadly, yes. You haven't seen him in a truly good mood yet."

"Your request has been noted," Sulpicia says with a smile, which the white-haired man almost returns.

-

"Aro loves you." Marcus announces it simply, a statement of fact that cannot be contradicted.

Sulpicia wants to snap at him and shake him hard (_hoping to dislodge secrets gleaned by his gift)_. She is weary of being surrounded by knowing faces who understand everything, even her heart, better than she herself does.

"Not all of us have your abilities," she replies politely.

"It isn't that at all. Your feelings change so much that I cannot see the exact nature of your bond."

She raises an eyebrow, confused.

"My sister told me that if you truly care about someone, you will find a way to bring up their name in conversation at least thrice, though they are entirely unrelated to the topic at hand." He smiles quietly, perhaps remembering his sibling, dead for nearly a thousand years.

"Every time I speak with Aro, he mentions you about a dozen times."

She does her best to suppress the fluttering joy she feels and instead says, "Did Didyme ask you to tell me this?"

"That does not make it any less true."

It is so temptingly easy to believe Marcus.

-

If someone asks Sulpicia, (_point-blank to her monstrously pretty face_) whether she loves Aro, she will stare, then apologize, then leave. Emotions, like summer honey, are sticky, warm and slow; (_if you do not watch yourself, stings and scars are all you will retain)_. She has learned this lesson a long time ago.

If, however, the question is reshaped into something more pragmatic (_what would you do for him?)_, she can honestly answer.

_Anything_.

He is her reflection, familiar and darkly comforting. Wanting him comes as easily as breathing, as being. Together, they are two sides of a mirror, and Sulpicia has always been a little bit in love with the things she sees in the looking glass.

For reasons that are entirely her own, she allows herself to freefall, hoping that Aro will catch her in the end. Caius and Marcus don't know their brother nearly as well as they think; Sulpicia understands that there is a fair chance he will let her heart tumble and shatter just so he can play with the pieces.

* * *

**Author's Note:** The next chapter will be my attempt at writing a lime, so that's something to look forward to :P. As always, reviews make me ridiculously happy.


	7. want

**Author's Note:** This chapter contains adult(ish) situations, limited to implied sex. It isn't graphic or detailed, but if it bothers you, use your discretion and avoid this particular vignette.

* * *

**.:want:.**

Sulpicia has never needed to orchestrate a seduction. Beauty likes hers will neither acquiesce nor wish; it can only demand. She will not make an exception in Aro's case.

Instead, she catches his high cheekbones between her palms, raises herself on tip-toe and kisses him with her eager, strawberry mouth. The kiss carries its own subtext, and her thoughts make this abundantly clear. He begins fumbling for words, but his charm is curiously absent, leaving only unreliable sincerity and the threadbare truth.

"You know that I—"

She silences him, placing a slender finger against his lips.

"You don't need to say it."

"But I want to."

He stops abruptly, knowing that passionate declarations are meaningless, instead wrapping her in an embrace that dances between affection and desire.

-

Clothing is scattered on the ornate carpet like streamers torn down by the wind, but neither Aro nor Sulpicia could care less. Facades of grace and imperiousness have fallen away, though a strange, visceral loveliness remains. Together, they are beautiful, majestic even, as the darkness of his hair tangles with her deep gold waves upon the pristine covers of his bed.

Sulpicia's eyes are black from barely-controlled, newborn want as her hands begin their tentatively tender exploration of her lover's body. Her uncertainty only matches her pride, but his smiles (_ecstatically, eagerly joyful_) are enough to convince her that, despite her unfamiliarity, Aro is happy to have her in his arms.

Aro's head spins in a dizzy kaleidoscope; every caress introduces him to passion, his own and hers, sharply shown to him by her mind. Already, he is murmuring incoherent endearments and she is biting her lower lip to keep herself from babbling. He smirks widely; shattering her self-restraint is a challenge he will gladly accept, and if the insistent pressure of her nails against his shoulders is any indicator, he is certainly on the right track.

-

Some time afterward, Aro lies with his chin pressed against the little hollow on Sulpicia's chest where her ribs meet, ridges of bone shielding her heart. His gift is only as accurate as his cluttered thoughts, now tinted and imprecise like a winter sunrise pooling through coloured glass.

Love reduces him to predictability, and he hates himself for it. "What are you thinking about?" he asks her, though they are woven together, skin to skin.

The raw-silk desire behind her words belies her innocently ruffled curls, her contented-cat smile. "I think we should do this again."

"Really?" he grins, propping himself up on his elbows.

"_Now."_ Her voice is a throaty whisper, and his laughter is lost when his lips collide with her throat.

* * *

**(Yet another) Author's Note:** There you go: my infamous attempt at a lime has been posted. I tried to keep it relatively tame, leave Aro and Sulpicia in-character, and refrain from too much saccharine-sweetness.

Let me know how I did, please. Feedback makes Kyilliki happy, and also a better writer.


	8. gift

**.:gift:.**

A red dawn spills through the archways, and Aro raises a lazy hand to shield his eyes, wondering where the night has gone. Sulpicia, draped over him like a particularly beautiful blanket, glances across the room.

"A new bed might be in order," she says calmly, looking at the splintered wood that, with some imagination, could have been furniture once.

"And a new wall," he adds. The stone is crumbling and bits of masonry have been dislodged, but he considers it miraculous that the ceiling itself has not collapsed. Sulpicia runs a gentle hand through his hair, brushing away fine particles of granite. "I think you look adorable covered in woodchips and dust."

He grins, looping an arm around her waist and hugging her with his own unique brand of vivid enthusiasm. A few moments of silence pass, then she says, "That wall we almost broke—isn't Caius' room on the other side of it?"

Aro's eyes widen for a moment. "He isn't going to be happy."

"He heard everything," Sulpicia says with a shudder, "And because of us, his room is partially wrecked."

"We're _dead_."

Nothing can ruin the giddy sweetness of their joy this morning, not even Marcus and Didyme's knowing smirks and Caius' inevitable rage.

-

Sulpicia's clothes are torn beyond all recognition, so Aro helps her slip on one of his tunics, far too large for her slender frame. As he frees the stray curls tangled at the collar, his fingers brush her neck, and he catches a misplaced thought, so quiet and uncertain that he almost misses it.

_I love you_.

He should know better, but the adolescent, love-struck boy whom he reverts to around her replies, "I know," as his lips brush her temple.

He doesn't expect the sudden glacial stillness that fills her head. Of course, she knows nothing about his gift, because he has not told her. It seemed better at the time—telling a lover that her every thought is yours after a single touch will not elicit a positive reaction, he convinces himself.

Aro underestimates the quickness of Sulpicia's mind. One incongruous phrase, and she guesses that he is gifted, and the extent of his power. There is no anger on her perfect features; hushed heartbreak takes the place of wrath, accompanied by something that could be regret. She can offer her body easily, and her heart will follow soon after, but this final violation of her mind is unbearable to her.

The hollow, funereal void that replaces her joy is sharply etched into his own thoughts before she jerks away from him and leaves silently, her face bathed in harsh, coppery sunlight.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Enough of this fluff business. Now Aro and Sulpicia are going to have their fair share of angst, and this story will return to having a plot.

Reviews are awesome.


	9. silence

**.:silence:.**

Alone in his room, Aro paces, lips moving silently, as though he is trying to remember the words to something long since forgotten. Yet another apology is tested, then ended with an uncharacteristic snarl. He feels vaguely, unpleasantly unbalanced, as though a hole has been torn through his heart, then neatly patched. Silken and polished on the outside, he can sense a horrid, echoing emptiness beneath his fingertips as he presses his palm to the plane of his chest.

Aro tries to hold his mind in check, but every time a silver strand of thought slips through, Sulpicia's agony colours his vision, spreading in spirals like blood in water. If anyone else was the cause of her suffering, he would ensure their immediate death but now he can only turn the blame inward.

_I'm—I'm sorry. I didn't intend to lie to you, but I knew that you would want nothing to do with me if you were aware of my gift. The only thing worse than you hating me is being the cause of your pain—_

He stops himself abruptly in the middle of the choked, too-vehement confession before more roughly-hewn thoughts can spill out. It alarms him to see unfeigned emotion in his mind, raw, vulnerable and real, though his sudden idea is more troubling. Somehow, he finds himself wishing to be _ordinary_, gift-less and blind to the minds of others.

He shakes his head, lost somewhere between anger and desperation. One woman has reduced him to this, but he cannot let her know. Instead, he spends the morning practicing apologies until the phrases are smoothly lovely as pearls.

-

The bathwater around Sulpicia steams and seethes, hot enough to raise throbbing welts on a mortal's skin. She submerges herself without wincing, praying that the heat will cauterize the wounds raked across her mind. Aro's scent, warm and crisp as late-summer berries, clings to her hair and she swipes her fingers through it furiously.

_I can't stay angry forever_, she muses in her distanced way. _I'll forgive him, enough to laugh with him and listen to him. With time, I will not care—_

Cool reason shatters, and Sulpicia bites her knuckles hard enough to break the skin, choking back a scream. She is young by mortal standards, an infant by immortal terms, and nobody can expect a heartbroken girl to contain her grief.

A few moments later, a perfectly composed young woman with feather-bright scars on her hands washes her face and counts the tiles on the mosaic wall, not even a tremor betraying emotion.

* * *

**Author's Note:** A few people commented last time that they'd like to see more of Aro's emotions, and I included a bit of that in this chapter. My interpretation of Aro is that he's not the sort to spend a long time contemplating how he feels- he'd rather fix whatever is bothering him, and only worry about the accompanying emotions afterward, if at all.

Happy Halloween, everybody! Go gorge yourselves on candy and engage in dubious shenanigans with your friends. That's what I'll be doing.


	10. understanding

**.:understanding:.**

The intricacy of Sulpicia's braids lends a façade of precise logic to the unruffled serenity of her features, but everything about her is misleading. The embroidered cushions beside her are pockmarked with crescent-moon tears where her nails have dug deep, and the edges of the parchment across her knees are deeply creased. Her mood changes and swirls, unpredictable as a spring river.

Footsteps, brisk and insistent on the library's soft carpet, interrupt her reverie. Glancing up, she sees Caius, scowling as always though less dour without the whispering darkness of his cloak. Flinching, she wonders whether she can depart without him noticing but she doubts it—sharpened senses will have noticed her presence.

He heads towards her immediately and she wonders how her day could get any worse.

"I apologize about the previous night. I did not intend to disturb you," she murmurs politely, unsure how to treat this stern, almost-brother whom she barely knows.

He waves a dismissive hand, "I should have chosen a different room. I wanted to speak with you about something else."

She nods and looks at him attentively, wondering what could be important enough to have him seek her out.

"Aro didn't tell you about his gift," he says, because Caius has no tact.

She buries her head in her hands. How is it that everybody here knows her business, even if they have no supernatural talents?

"Did he ask you to do this?" she demands.

"No. He didn't tell me about his ability for a while either. He learned every detail of my life before I realized the extent of his power." The white-haired man's voice is pinched, as though he hasn't forgiven his own stupidity.

"You're still here, though. You didn't leave?" The idea of someone knowing every nuance of her thoughts and viewing the fading labyrinth of her memories fills her with deep, irrational fear. It isn't the forced intimacy that chills her, but the certainty that her mind contains crystalline darkness. Anyone who sees the creature behind the beautiful eyes is sure to distrust her at best.

"I wanted to. My mortal life was enough to frighten anyone. That's the thing with Aro—no matter what he sees in someone's head, it will fascinate him." Sulpicia cannot suppress her smile; Caius' description of her lover is wonderfully accurate.

"Aro will not judge you for whatever secrets you are keeping," he says, then moves to get up.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asks, confused entirely now.

"Because Aro wasn't entirely fair to you…and because now you owe me a favour. When you inevitably make amends with my brother, wreck Marcus' room, alright?" He smiles, the gesture as brilliant and unexpected as summer lightning, before walking away.

Sulpicia interlaces her fingers together, tilts her head back and allows herself to consider, only for a moment, the possibility that Aro will not be startled by the calculating stillness tainting her thoughts.

* * *

**Author's Note:** In my mind, Sulpicia and Caius are quite close. They know Aro the best, they both don't have gifts and Sulpicia can appreciate Caius' logic and stubbornness. I can see them having an older-brother/younger-sister sort of relationship.


	11. trust

**.:trust:.**

"Sulpicia, may I speak to you?" Aro asks, pressing thin fingers against the heavy oak of her door.

"Maybe," she says quietly, because she hasn't had more than a day to mope, and she feels entitled to a little more time.

She does not open the door for him. When you offend a goddess, some grovelling is required.

"My dear, beautiful Sulpicia, I would like to ask your—"

"Spare me. You will either explain yourself or you _will_ leave." There is metal, jagged and shorn, in her voice.

Aro startles. Nobody treats him with this sort of contempt, with the possible exception of Caius, but never before has he felt as though iron bands have been looped and constricted around his chest because of mere words.

"I knew you would react like this," he says, the undercurrent of joy ebbing away from his tone.

"You are blaming me?" she whispers, and he can only imagine the pain and rage in her wine-coloured eyes.

"No, no, dear one. I blame myself. I only wanted to be with you, and I was certain that you'd have nothing to do with me if you understood the extent of my gift." He assumes that she is considering his statement for a moment because no sharp response has been launched at him.

"I know that I was wrong, but you must believe that I only had good intentions," he presses forward, hoping that something will convince her that he is not a manipulative liar.

"Do you know how it _feels_, Aro? Do you understand the vulnerability of having someone know every detail of your life?" There is something hesitant and shaking behind her words.

"I cannot help having a gift, Sulpicia," he says gently, "but imagine the advantages of it. I'll always be able to see from your perspective, and no one will ever understand you the way I can."

This pronouncement meets silence, then the door creaks open just a little.

"Am I forgiven?" he asks, a shyly hopeful smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

He finds her tangled in his arms, caught in an embrace that treads the slender line between confusion and desire. The steel around his heart vanishes, replaced with lightness that flutters and twirls giddily like hummingbird-wings, and he buries his lips in her hair. A few moments pass, rushed and hungry, where hands and mouths explore familiar skin, then Sulpicia steps back from him, only cradling her palm in his.

"Aro, promise me something."

"Anything," he says and means it, though he glances at her thoughts for some indicator of her request.

"Don't lie to me again, please."

He nods, and pulls her close once more, sensitive fingers exploring the porcelain grace of her features. Lost in the sweetness of having his love in his arms, he does not notice the grain of distrust that appears in her thoughts, insignificant enough to be ignored even by Sulpicia, but present nonetheless.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I maintain that Aro and Sulpicia have a legitimately loving relationship, but his ability to read minds will make things complicated. Complicated is fun, though. Idealized love is so much less interesting.


	12. what he finds there

**.:what he finds there:.**

Somehow, Sulpicia insinuates herself into Aro's room, and he cannot be happier. He loves the colourful confetti of her jewelery scattered over the dresser and the softness of her tunics neatly folded among his cloaks. More importantly, he adores the way she curls up on his bed. The rich oak and velvet overwhelm her, but she seems to belong there, incongruously regal though her hair is tangled in elf-locks.

She is his shadow now, or perhaps he is hers. Aro does not contemplate the distinction.

Instead, he considers the woman beside him, beautiful Sulpicia, her arms curved in arabesques upon the cushions in a memory of love made. No longer flinching away from his touch and its implications, she smiles leisurely as he traces letters and shapes across the snowy arches of her breasts.

_Eros_ he writes in Greek, spelling the word for adoration, the sweet freefall of passion.

He blows lightly across her skin, then inscribes _adamo_, the Latin verb that means so much more than simple affection, capturing the fire of coveting, admiration and lust in a handful of simple syllables.

Her strawberry lips quirk in a smile, which radiates through her thoughts like the echo of a song. "Either you're being romantic, or you're wondering how well I understand Greek. Which is it?" she asks, her voice remarkably collected.

"You're perfect," Aro whispers, his mouth pressed to her collarbone. "Have I told you that already?"

She rolls her eyes a little, feigning disdain, though that is not an illusion she can maintain for long.

-

This is what Aro sees when he looks at Sulpicia: a spun-gold creature of amber and honey, hard edges blurred by a veneer of silk. Her mind is a brilliant sparkling thing, somewhere between a jewel and a toy for him to explore at will. Her thoughts fascinate him, but they are sharp enough on the surface to captivate him for hours, without forcing Aro to reach the depths and see what waits beneath those still waters.

This is what Aro does not notice: the easy cruelty that glints beneath those innocent garnet eyes and the iron of her wrath that she wields easily against her lovers and her enemies indiscriminately. She knows that her beauty is enough of a shield to mask _any_ imperfection, at least for a while, and this suits her well. And power…power sings to her, draws her close until the flames blister her hands.

She _is_ Aro (_his calculation, his ambition, his loneliness and curiosity tangled in knots_) taken to incomparable excesses.

If her mate is asked whether he considers himself a monster, he will dismiss the inquiry as the ravings of a lunatic. It shouldn't be surprising, then, that he acknowledges none of the shadows behind the façade of the woman in his arms.

* * *

**Author's Note: **_Adamo_ is the first person singular of the Latin verb _adamare_, and it has so many interesting meanings: to lust for, to love passionately and/or adulterously, to covet or to fall in love with. You can decide how Aro intended it for yourselves.

Reviews are love.


	13. plan

**.:plan:.**

Aro sits at his desk, tapping the tip of his stylus against his lip pensively. There is parchment strewn all around him, covered in tiny, precise lettering that plans and predicts an empire's downfall. Tendrils of dark hair escape the strip of leather that ties it away from a pale face, smudged with ink.

It is a testament to his preoccupation that he does not notice his love approach, the heady smell of pomegranates clinging to her skin. She slips her arms around his shoulders as her sunny curls spill onto the map he is studying. Again, she sees the names of ancients carefully underlined and scribbled notes framing the borders.

"The eastern lands are only a colony of Rome," Sulpicia says. "How do Stefan and Vladimir rule an empire from such a distant corner of the world?"

"Their coven is enormous. The rumours—as far as they can be trusted—place their numbers over fifty. Nobody dares challenge them."

"Except you," she smirks.

"Except me. You see, they have a rather…indiscriminate strategy of acquiring new members. Anyone who swears allegiance is welcomed, regardless of skills or capabilities." A note of distaste creeps into his voice, and she thinks of the handful of guards at the coven's periphery. Even the ungifted are extraordinary: Felix with his bear's strength, delicate Drusilla who moves like lightning, Septimus and his uncanny ability to predict his opponent's motions.

"They will not be difficult to defeat, then," Sulpicia murmurs. "Stumbling, untrained newborns are useless."

"Perhaps. Nonetheless, their loyalty to their leaders is alarming. Something about Vladimir especially commands respect, even adoration. I do not have the capacity to break those bonds." Aro's tone carries hints of regret, as though he doubts his own charm and influence.

"Let Caius make an example out of a few. Offer the rest their lives in exchange for their entrance into this coven. Not one will refuse, I can almost promise it." She looks so lovely as she says it, her mouth curving into a blissful smile, as though she is a little girl with a delightful secret.

Aro breathes in sharply as heat coils through him. There is something _exquisite _about this woman, with her vicious innocence, her bloodstained sweetness.

"You're ruthless, my dear," he whispers, fire lapping the edges of his words. She is about to respond, but he crushes his lips against hers while his hands catch her wrists, pinning them down on smooth rosewood.

Later, they breathlessly sort the papers that have tumbled and swirled in all directions like late-autumn snow.

* * *

**Author's Note:** My research (hello, Wikipedia) tells me that Romanians did not refer to themselves as such until approximately the fifteenth or sixteenth century and that the regions of Romania had changing names over time. Therefore, I can't refer to Stefan and Vladimir as Romanians for a long while.


	14. supra leges

**.:supra leges:.**

"There is a…visitor here," Aro tells Sulpicia one morning. "We will be receiving him in the throne room. Will you attend?"

She smiles knowingly. Visitor is the polite synonym for condemned prisoner, and she remembers the march of Felix's heavy steps, dragging the unlucky soul across the marble of the entrance hall.

"I will be there," she agrees. "Must I wear a cloak?" She dislikes the inky darkness of cloth enveloping her in high summer, but there is a certain air of the untouchable lent by the smooth fabric.

"No, love, of course not. This is a private affair."

Sulpicia loops her arm through his and listens as Aro lists the law-breaker's transgressions. The man transformed a woman, who proved to be an unpredictable newborn. In mid-afternoon, she killed a human in full view of Rome's main forum.

It is a crime of oversight, a common, petty thing.

-

Aro sits in the middle throne, and Sulpicia stands behind him, a beautiful shadow. She understands the necessity of this placement; there is no value in flaunting a leader's emotional ties. In a quick movement, Aro reaches back and catches her hand in his, then places her palm on his shoulder, an obvious mark of tenderness. Caught off-guard for a moment, she comprehends the subtle imagery of the gesture. There is something terrifying about watching your judge and executioner play with his lover's fingers as he decides your fate, and Aro is fully aware of that.

"He won't do it again. Spare him," Didyme says softly, her voice shimmering and distant as the stars.

Marcus nods, because Didyme's opinions are his laws.

"This idiot unleashed a newborn into a city of a hundred thousand superstitious, panicked humans. Death is the only adequate punishment for such carelessness," Caius says coolly, not sparing a glimpse at either the accused or his sentimental brother.

Sulpicia remembers Caius' explanation that there are only three causes of crime: ill will, good intentions and terminal stupidity. This man's misdemeanor strikes her as the latter, which assures a repetition of past mistakes. "I agree with Caius," she says in a whisper, because condemnation frightens the sweet girl that still holds a corner of her thoughts.

Aro brushes a kiss over her knuckles and purrs, "You read my mind, Sulpicia." A slight incline of his head, and the man forced to his knees is ripped apart and burned in instants.

When the acrid smell has faded, Aro glances at his mate and says, "You are quite insightful, dear one. Your vote would be valued, if you should choose to attend future judgments."

Sulpicia looks at Marcus briefly, and decides that he is so enthralled with his love and ideology that he would not care who ruled beside him, while Caius likes her enough to raise no objections.

Aro…Aro is dangerous. She knows that her novelty is not eternal, and the thought of a rival (_just as vicious, intelligent, seductive_) will only trouble her mate. She shows her most brilliant smile, and turns down the offer.

* * *

**Author's Note:** The title of this drabble translates to 'above the law'. It is part of the motto carved around the Volturi throne room in the _New Moon_ movie, which was a very nice touch that made my inner Latin nerd gleeful.

This drabble hints at some of Sulpicia's reasons for avoiding public leadership; she has quite a strong understanding of Aro, coupled with necessary self-preservation.


	15. listen

**.:listen:.**

Amidst the cool steel of Aro's machinations, Caius does the unthinkable and falls in love. Bound by iron-clad laws penned in his own hand, he can only transform the woman, explaining nothing and praying that she will accept the barbed gift of immortality.

She does not. Wide-eyed Athenodora snarls at him, directing all her wrath at the pale man who offers her his scarred heart. From what Caius can discern, her mortal life was serene, a quiet, affectionate place where she wishes to remain. Eternity does not tempt her, and she knows for certain that a world of lust and blood entwined is not what she desires.

Then, strangely and suddenly, Athenodora proves that she is as passionate and unpredictable as her lover. She turns to him with something shy, tentative and smoldering in her ruby eyes, and from that moment, Caius can barely bite back his smile.

-

After the requisite broken furniture, the shattered-kaleidoscope madness of newborn lust coupled with first love, Caius and Athenodora find their equilibrium. Through the stone separating their chambers, Aro and Sulpicia hear muffled sighs, the silken rasp of flesh against flesh, and perhaps surprisingly, laughter.

"They sound happy," Sulpicia remarks, tangling Aro's hair in lazy spirals.

"Caius has been shouting a bit less nowadays. I interpret it as a good sign," he says, brushing a soft kiss against her brow. It is a light response to a leading comment, and she catches her mate's evasion.

"Do you not like her?" she wonders, her vivid mind already seeking potential reasons for his reticence.

"I have no qualms with Athenodora. She seems intelligent enough to match Caius, and he does not intimidate her. That is all I could ask from a sister-in-law."

Sulpicia curves an eyebrow, but lets the subject rest. She will discover Aro's thoughts using her own methods. Instead, she cocoons herself in his arms and amuses herself by pressing kisses against his chest until he growls low in his throat and reciprocates her caresses with enthusiasm.

-

Later, with Sulpicia curled beside him and the low echo of voices from the next room whispering in his ears, Aro suddenly understands. There is nothing troubling about Caius finding a mate, but the stark contrast between his brother's love and his own startles him for a moment. It is as simple as the distinction between silence and shared laughter.

He does not speak with Sulpicia about the unnecessary things—his impressions, moments that strike him as amusing or odd. Their conversations are cool and logical, peppered with cleverness and humor, perhaps, but always with a destination in sight. Emotion is restrained to the physical realm, because thoughts and words can be misinterpreted.

For half a heartbeat, he envies Caius and the easy understanding he shares with Athenodora, though they are both giftless, blind as mortals to each other's hearts and minds. The thought is discarded quickly. Aro does not waste time on regret.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'm still confused about whether Sulpicia and Athenodora are cousins. I was sure this was a fanon invention, but then I was directed to the Twilight Saga wiki, which mentioned that the wives were related and turned at the same time. That was the only source I could find.

According to the vague timeline of this fic, Sulpicia's been a vampire for about a century now, and Athenodora really can't be her genetic relative, unless there's time travel involved.

Please forgive me for violating possible canon.


	16. east

**.:east:.**

It is not often that Aro calls together the members of his coven. They gather informally often enough because beneath power's polished veneer, they are friends at least, a quietly devoted family at most. When something of great importance occurs, six immortals meet because their leader, not their brother, requires it of them.

Five statuesque faces are tilted towards him curiously. Tension jumps between them, sudden and unpredictable as sparks from the forge. For an instant, Aro savors the heady intoxication of knowledge and power, before linking his fingers thoughtfully.

"Dear ones," he begins, "we have received news from the east."

Even newborn Athenodora knows to whom Aro is referring.

"Vladimir and Stefan have called a…reunion of sorts, among the covens they consider allies. It is only a friendly convention, I think, a gentle reminder of their authority. We must, of course, attend."

"No. That is ridiculous. They can guess at our motives easily, and the last thing we need is Stefan and Vladimir knowing our numbers and capabilities," Caius snarls. Any hint of whimsy is enough to set his fury alight.

"For once, I agree with our delightful Caius. What are you thinking, Aro?" Marcus wonders, though his eyes linger on Didyme.

Sulpicia says nothing. Questioning her mate openly troubles her for a reason she cannot quite place.

"I intend to travel to the east, and I ask only that Marcus, little Didyme and my dear Sulpicia accompany me. Caius, you will remain in Volterra with the guard, and we will make your excuses. Surely our friend Vladimir will understand that finding a mate has distracted you from politics."

Marcus nods, after considering it. There is wisdom in bringing only the leaders of the coven, because it lends false vulnerability, suggesting that they do not have enough members to send in their stead. Leaving quarrelsome Caius behind is advantageous as well; he is clever enough to maintain peace in his brothers' absence and, should anything go wrong, he can lead a military campaign alone.

Caius' mind is clearly elsewhere. His arm is looped around Athenodora, and their smiles are brilliant.

"We will depart at dusk," Aro announces, placing his hand lightly on Sulpicia's palm. The affectionate gesture blurs the neat lines between lover and ruler; she wonders whether he is seeking the reassurance of a partner's touch or merely asking her opinion. Giving him a smile that glimmers like fireflies, she curls her fingers around his and swirls her thumb over his knuckles.

It's the serenity of this moment, the belonging she feels amidst careful manipulation that both startles and soothes her.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Volturi road-trip! I'm so sorry, I had to say that because maturity escapes me sometimes. The next chapters will contain interactions between the Volturi and Stefan and Vladimir, and I'm quite looking forward to that.

Updates might be sporadic until December 14th, because I have to study for finals.

Finally, a huge thank-you for the reviews I've been receiving. I really wasn't sure whether this fic would find an audience, and I'm so grateful for all the support :)


	17. mine

**.:mine:.**

The eastern territories are beautiful in Sulpicia's opinion, though she has only seen them briefly. The slumbering stillness of the forests and the dark stone of the mountains are alien to an immortal accustomed to Italia's sun-kissed brilliance. Nonetheless, she wonders what sort of coven has made its home in this harsh place, where the bones of the land show through.

"Aro, you must travel more with Sulpicia," Didyme chirps, smiling at her sister. "Just look at her expression."

Fondness lingers in Aro's eyes for a moment, but a serenity-painted mask descends over his features as soon as the turrets of a castle come into view.

-

"Ah, Aro! It is a pleasure to see you once more!" a slight, brown-haired immortal announces in accented Latin as soon as the four cloaked figures enter the main hall. "It has been too long."

The two share an awkward embrace. Aro is nearly a head taller, and he clumsily brushes his fingers over the other man's skin, an almost painfully obvious attempt at learning his thoughts.

"It is wonderful to speak with you again, Stefan. I have heard of your coven's greatness." There is false deference in the dark-haired man's voice.

"And we, sadly, know so little of your family," Stefan exclaims. Sulpicia almost smiles; it is amusing to see two masters of theatrics trying to deceive one another. "Vladimir, brother, come meet our friends from the south!" he continues, throwing a glance over his shoulder.

Stefan shimmers with energy, like the sun on winter snow, while pale Vladimir smolders. There is something quiet, coiled and watchful in his gaze, almost serpentine in its wariness. The paradox is intriguing.

"This is my dear sister, Didyme," Aro murmurs, presenting the sweet, dark-haired woman. "Her mate, Marcus. And finally, my lovely Sulpicia."

She would like to convince herself that it is merely an oversight, a slight error in judgment when Vladimir's ember-eyes linger on her for a moment too long, and something seems to spark there, in the depths.

-

"They are both quite taken with you, Vladimir especially," Aro tells his mate while they strip off dusty cloaks and choose more suitable garments.

Sulpicia shrugs elegantly, "Can you blame them?" Her tone is only half-joking.

"You're mine," he breathes against the sensitive skin of her neck. "My strange, brilliant, radiant Sulpicia."

"Is this jealousy, Master Aro? I thought you were above such trivialities," she teases lightly.

"When it comes to you, dear one, I am above nothing." His kisses turn fiery, edged with teeth and the blind possession of desire.

It is only with great difficulty that they return to the main hall at the expected time, cool and unassailable as polished silver.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Clearly, I'm procrastinating by updating this fic.

There will be more Romanians in the next few chapters. Keep in mind that their personalities haven't yet been warped by defeat, so they are not nearly as bitter in my interpretation as they are in _Breaking Dawn_.


	18. facades

**.:facades:.**

Sulpicia does not need to be told that Vladimir's seeming warmth towards her can be used to Aro's advantage. Her beauty is only another card in the devastating hand her mate wishes to play, and she feels no responsibility towards the unfortunates who believe the bluff.

It takes time for her to realize that the fair-haired immortal understands the game far better than she expected, but seeks her out regardless.

-

The first time she converses with Vladimir, it is either coincidence or a careful orchestration on his part. He walks past her and then stops suddenly.

"You have not hunted in a while, Sulpicia," he remarks, without a greeting or pleasantries. His voice carries hints of rich consonants, an intimation of sensuality, as though he tastes his words instead of merely speaking them.

She raises an eyebrow at this undiplomatic though accurate observation, but chooses to remain silent.

"Join me. I was just intending to feed."

"I'm fine. Aro and I—"

"Ah, yes. Your mate does not quite trust me, but then I doubt he trusts anyone. Regardless of his opinions, I am not going to harm you."

"Do you always say what enters your mind?" she demands. "And do you truly believe you can hurt me?"

His smile is (_there are no other words for it_) beautiful, blinding as an eclipse, and just as unexpected. "We value honesty here, because we have no gifts," he says, cautiously ignoring her second inquiry.

She slips a little hand into the proffered crook of his arm, and they walk on stone, until it bleeds and blends into the roots of the forest.

-

Hunting with another is akin to allowing a stranger to hear your weeping, or sharing your garments with a casual acquaintance. At the end of the strange, too-personal exchange, you cannot help feeling a shred of liking towards your chance companion, because you have already presented them with a shard of yourself.

_(As easily as that, Sulpicia and Vladimir are friends, or at least reluctant enemies who happen to be fond of one another.) _

-

"I think Vladimir genuinely likes me," Sulpicia murmurs, voicing the connected theme of her thoughts to Aro.

"My wife mentions other men while I'm kissing her. I'm heartbroken," he says playfully, lifting his head from the ridges of her ribs.

A pillow meets his back with a soft thud. "You owe me for this very convincing charade I am putting on for our hosts."

"I know, and I fully intend to repay the favor."

Before her lust corrodes coherence, Sulpicia considers the borders between facades and reality, but Aro's hands have a way of dispelling her logic.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I have nothing much to say about this chapter. As always, please let me know what you think.


	19. deceive

**.:deceive:.**

The night is too still, feathery and shimmering as midwinter frost. There is something intangible in the balance, Sulpicia can sense it, but she cannot place the feeling's source. Distracted, she sits beside Vladimir in silent camaraderie.

"You will be departing soon." His voice echoes dull, unfeigned regret.

"It is necessary. I can only imagine the trouble Caius has managed to create in our absence." Sulpicia's words skitter and dance, irrelevant autumn leaves plucked and tossed in all directions. She wishes to mark borders between Vladimir and herself with flippancy, etchings in the sand that read _this far and no further._

"I cannot say that I am surprised. Aro has learned what he wanted; he even has some insight about me through your eyes." There is no accusation, no bitterness there. "Nonetheless, I am quite pleased to have met you, though I would have appreciated different circumstances."

The stiffness of his farewell coaxes a smile from her, as honesty always does. In the heartbeat of silence where she considers a response, something in Vladimir's eyes ignites. His fingers encircle her wrist gently, a caress edged with restraint.

"That monster you call your mate will break you someday. When that time comes, or even before it, I will gladly welcome you here."

His lips brush her forehead, then the corner of her mouth. The kisses are light as laughter, over before she can flinch away. He flutters hesitant fingers over the contours of her features, as though she is too lovely, too precious to be real, before turning away with an affectionate glance.

"Have a safe journey," he murmurs, even and contained once more.

-

Sulpicia growls deep in her throat after Vladimir has vanished into the labyrinthine corridors of his fortress. The coppery taste of betrayal fills her mouth, though she is not certain why the response is so visceral. No longer considering Aro's machinations or the necessity of diplomacy, she wishes to tear at fair-haired immortal's skin, until she can no longer remember what he said, and what she felt.

_You dared to question my mate, and my love,_ her thoughts grate. _You have no right._

Her flinty fury slashes through any semblance of logic, leaving only a raw, snarling thing that is neither beautiful nor altogether sane.

_You will beg me for mercy at the end of this,_ she vows, if only to forget the sparks that flickered across her skin from Vladimir's touch.

It is much later that she remembers her mate's gift and wonders how well she must weave her words to mitigate the deception he will surely see within her mind, apparent and ominous as crimson pooling on snow.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sulpicia's strongest trait is her need for power, and the vehemence of her reaction to Vladimir is a direct result of her losing control, if only for a moment.


	20. catalyst

**.:catalyst:.**

"Ah, Aro! I have been searching for you!" Stefan announces as he hurries to match Aro's long strides. Though the taller man can summon no genuine liking towards his companion, he feigns a cheerful smile.

"How may I help you, Stefan?"

"Oh, I merely wanted to tell you that you have a very captivating family," he says, his voice bright and sharp around the edges.

"Yes, I certainly think so," Aro agrees politely, already attempting to foresee this conversation's destination. This ignorance of his opponent's motives troubles him.

"It is a pity we do not have the privilege of seeing you more often," Stefan continues blithely.

"I agree, it is most unfortunate, but Italia is far, and we cannot leave Volterra unguarded for long."

"Yes, that is most certainly true, and I would not act differently in your position. For that reason, a few members of my coven will visit you periodically, just to save you the inconvenience of travel. You do not mind?"

An enraged growl curls itself around the base of Aro's throat and he barely bites it back. Behind Stefan's polished words, the intent is clear. Something about the Italian coven has caught Vladimir and Stefan's eyes, and they are watching, waiting for signs of rebellion or clumsy errors. Either would be a fitting justification for war, which Aro is certain he cannot win yet.

There is nothing he can do but agree that he looks forward to meeting whomever is sent, then murmur a hasty excuse and retreat to his chambers.

-

Behind the privacy of a bolted door, Aro seethes. For once, he indulges in the sort of rage Caius is renowned for, scattering his possessions across the room, overturning books and candles once perched neatly upon his desk. When the disorder of his belongings mirrors the chaos of his thoughts, he sits down on a chair, pinches the bridge of his nose and plans, the only course of action left to him.

When he unlocks the door to allow Sulpicia inside, he hastily fumbles for words to explain the misguided mess, but she does not notice. Instead, she wraps her arms around him in an embrace that is frightening in its intensity before crushing her mouth against his with painful insistence.

Of course he questions his mate's sanity for a moment, before his gift grants him sight. He views Vladimir's kiss, hears the susurrus of his words, then sees wrath, volatile and unpredictable as burning oil, spill across Sulpicia's vision. Blind jealousy makes his fingers coil around her arms too tightly as everything but a single emotion fades into irrelevance.

"What—?" he snarls, faltering after one demanding syllable.

"How else was I to tell you?" she asks, lightly loosening his hold and stepping back, as though frightened of what he is about to do.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Now Aro has doubled incentive to overthrow the Romanians which, in his mind, will make any action justifiable... like murdering his little sister, perchance. That doesn't count as a spoiler, does it?


	21. war

**.:war:.**

It takes Didyme's gift, strained and taut as a harp-string, to prevent Aro from tearing at Vladimir's throat. She wraps her arms around her sibling's shoulders and cradles his head between her palms, an act of long-forgotten innocence. After a few moments, his posture changes and his finger loosen from predatory claws.

"Better, brother?" she whispers, her garnet eyes gleaming with concentration.

"Of course, little Didyme," he says, ruffling her careless curls.

Aro faces Marcus and Sulpicia, an almost gentle look on his features, residue from his sister's talent.

"We are leaving. When we return home, we will discuss matters," he announces, and his family knows not to disagree.

-

Sulpicia pulls the hood of her cloak low during the hasty, formal farewell with Vladimir and Stefan, not calling attention to herself.

There is no modesty in that gesture, no unwillingness or self-doubt. Instead, a shadowy smile graces the bow of her lips. She does not mind being the flint that sparks a war where she is sure to emerge victorious. After his sweetly unnecessary covetousness passes, she is certain her mate will thank her.

Just as she turns to depart, she flashes Vladimir a triumphant smirk, and she is certain that he notices it, because something akin to a shiver mars his cool serenity for a heartbeat.

-

"You're starting a war? Because of _jealousy_? Aro, we've spent decades plotting this overthrow, and you will simply rush forward now?" Caius' voice wavers between amusement and utter rage.

"It is necessary," the dark-haired immortal says tightly and that clipped tone allows no argument.

Caius rolls his eyes, but there is a smile curling the corners of his lips. Battle intoxicates him, even if it is an ill-advised, haphazard affair.

"Brothers, we must travel. There surely are more gifted mortals to be found," Aro instructs. "Didyme, Sulpicia and Athenodora, you will remain here. You will take care of any newborns we create."

As Aro lightly kisses her goodbye, Sulpicia glances at her sisters. Athenodora's farewell with Caius is quick and playful, as though they have exchanged promises that there will be no lovelorn theatrics when they part.

It is Marcus and Didyme who unnerve her, with their emphatic tenderness and the still desperation that lingers between them. Certainly, they have always been demonstrative (_unnecessarily, dramatically so, if anyone were to ask Sulpicia's opinion)_ but there are traces of genuine pain mirrored on their faces.

She wonders for a moment, but forgets her curiosity swiftly. Pulling Athenodora by the hand, she slips away to hunt, thirst sharpening her thoughts into a single crimson point.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I apologize for this late update. I am in a tropical place with hideously slow internet. That's why I haven't been replying to reviews, and I promise I'll do that as soon as I come home.

Increasingly, I've been asked why the chapters of this story are so short. It's mostly because as soon as I try to write longer chapters, I no longer have time to polish them and update regularly.


	22. shadow

**.:shadow:.**

"Dear gods, now I remember why I never wanted children," Athenodora hisses beneath her breath, looping the hem of her tunic around her arm and running after the coven's most recent addition, who has a penchant for hunting within Volterra's borders.

Sulpicia smiles at her sister encouragingly. They alternate the chore of minding the newborns between themselves, while Didyme remains quiet and solitary within her room, gazing at the sun with empty eyes.

It is only when her mate returns that Sulpicia understands why her laughing, curly-haired sister has flickered and dimmed into a shadow.

-

"Didyme intends to depart," Aro says, his voice frost-feathery, as he plays the role of a wounded brother.

"And Marcus is surely accompanying her," Sulpicia prompts, not raising her head from the cup of his shoulder.

"I cannot allow this, of course."

"You gave your blessing, my dear. You cannot simply revoke it," she reminds him, tracing hoops around his bellybutton with a careless finger.

"Even that would not impede them. No, what I am aiming for is a more permanent solution." He gauges her reaction with a curious touch, but her childishly terrified eyes tell him everything that he wishes to know.

"Do not think that this course of action is my first choice, love," he reassures, pressing a fluttering kiss against her eyelids. "I can see no alternate solution. And…" He stutters, vulnerability's rust-edged agony marring his words. "And it upsets me."

Sulpicia does not need to inquire whom Aro wishes to murder for a decision between Didyme's cheerful little gift and Marcus' insightful power is no choice at all. Her unwavering mind grasps this easily, but the vague sense of justice she retains, pressed near her heart, screams that her mate's scheme is monstrous.

"What do you think, Sulpicia?" he implores, begging for reassurance.

She could dissuade him, she is certain of that. Her beauty enchants him while her ephemeral, distant adoration confounds him; her power lies in her ability to cloud his judgment.

Instead, lovely Sulpicia bites her lip and nods. "Her death can be used to our advantage," she agrees. "If we fault the eastern coven, we will gain allies who sympathize with your loss."

His arms tighten around her in an embrace of gratitude, one hand tangling in her cloud of yellow hair. Aro holds her close the way a child would cradle a beloved toy, as though she can shield him from the yawning blackness.

The rest of the night is spent in mournful silence, atonement for future transgressions.

* * *

**Author's Note:** On that grim note, happy New Year's, everyone!


	23. world

**.:world:.**

Flower-bright silks are strewn on the pristine floor, carelessly thrown and tangled over tiled mosaics. On the dresser, ancient gems cast sunny refractions upon the walls, turning granite into a kaleidoscope of jeweled light. Amongst the ribbons and scrolls, beads and sea-glass, Sulpicia, Athenodora and Didyme sort through the beautiful, affectionate mess of a thousand years.

"Oh, what's this?" Athenodora says as slips of parchment tumble out of a box.

"Oh gods," Didyme squeaks, a slender hand covering her embarrassed face. "I believe Marcus wrote those. Please, don't read them."

"I really wish I hadn't," her sister murmurs, passing over the letters, before both of them dissolve in giggles. It seems that Marcus has no aptitude for poetry.

Sulpicia sits, solemn and aloof, with neatly folded cloth on her lap, unable to participate in the giddy sweetness shared by her sisters. Before they question her silence, she rises abruptly. Brushing a kiss that tastes of Gethsemane across Didyme's forehead, she departs in untarnished silence.

She does not know the precise moment when Aro will end his sister's life, but laughing with a condemned girl chills her to the marrow.

-

_Afterward_, when Marcus' screams have stopped, leaving a hush that seeps and stains like arterial blood, Sulpicia searches for Aro as the autumn night presses against her. It is a tangible, devouring darkness that frightens and threatens, filling her head with memories of ghosts. Relieved, she finds her mate, gazing at a portrait of his Didyme in the gallery.

His face is a perfect, porcelain masks that reveals neither victory nor tragedy, only directionless melancholy, but he takes her hand when she stands by his side. Here, in this place and at this time, her imagination moves in spirals, thinking of justice and vengeance, the unnamed hell reserved for those who betray family.

Sulpicia quickly brushes the guilt away. Instead, she leans her head on Aro's shoulder, her thoughts soothing, almost compassionate. She will not let her love suffer for his crime alone; there is some honour among murderers and their accomplices.

After some time passes, her mate lightly squeezes her fingers.

"You are right, dear one. I cannot…allow this to cloud my judgment."

Wordlessly, they find their way to his study, where the night is spent scrawling stratagems on old parchment. Occasionally, a brief conversation is conducted, clinical and direct, before thoughtful serenity returns. It is not heartless scheming in Sulpicia's eyes, but a commemoration of sorts to the kind little vampire who is only ash now. Her death, after all, will give Aro the world.

* * *

**Author's Note:** The garden of Gethsemane is where Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss. I feel weird, alluding to the Bible while writing fanfic, but it seemed appropriate in this case.

And... this fic has received a hundred reviews! Guys, that's amazing and I'm grateful to everyone who reads this story. You are all awesome *hugs and cookies abound*.


	24. mainstay

**.:mainstay:.**

Aro chooses his robe with care, searching for simplicity amongst the deep charcoals and rich crimsons of his customary garments. He wishes to uphold the sumptuous appearance of omnipotence while flaunting the spider-silk fragility of a bereaved brother. Settling on a cloak the shade of a winter sea, he fiddles with iron clasps before the looking glass.

Sulpicia appears behind him and runs her fingers through the gleaming jet of his hair, before tying it neatly away from his face.

"You look younger like this. Innocent," she murmurs, raising herself on tiptoe and pressing a kiss, feathery as autumn frost, against his cheek.

He cannot help looping a grateful arm around her hips. The honey-haired goddess beside him reads his thoughts as though they are sharply carved in letters across his skin, but that is a respite at times. With a brush of her hands and a few whispered words, she turns his plans into masterpieces, asking for nothing.

Impetuously, Aro twines his arms around his wife, embracing her with such enthusiasm that she is lifted off her feet.

_Never leave me_, every thought in his head screams, though his lips remain a tightly pressed gash.

_I am not going anywhere._ She is silent as well, but the words are burned into his mind in starbursts when Sulpicia's palms touch his.

-

Aro stands with Sulpicia beside him and addresses the guards. There is no need to play a part; he compartmentalizes himself, sealing away the ruler, the scholar and mate, leaving only an elder brother with a heart in shreds. In phrases that are fragments and shards, he tells his silent coven about his sister's death and pointedly lays the blame on Vladimir and Stefan's followers. Later, perhaps, he will glance into the minds of his supporters to determine their faith in his interpretation of events, but they seem wide-eyed and credulous as children now.

In his locked study, watching the chilly rain pattering on red rock, Aro wearily rests his head in the cradle of his arms. He knows that without his wife's quiet caresses, he would be a shattered creature with a torn soul, and he is thankful that she spares him that. On the other hand, without her encouragement, Didyme would likely be alive, and his empire nothing more than a vague plan, cast away in the realm of improbable dreams.

His lovely, devious, garnet-eyed Sulpicia damns and redeems him in the same gesture, and the dichotomy is not lost upon Aro, though ordinarily, he would pay it no heed. Raking his spidery fingers through his hair, he brushes introspection aside. He has not fed in weeks, and he assumes that blood will banish the coiled shadows pooling within his thoughts.

* * *

**Author's Note:** The point of this vignette is to show that Sulpicia and Aro have a moral code that makes perfect sense to them; it isn't that they're heartless, it's that they don't quite understand why their actions are wrong. I didn't want them to be entirely irredeemable monsters.

Reviews, as always, brighten my day :)


	25. sisters

**.:sisters:.**

"_Do_ something, Aro," Caius hisses. "Else, Marcus will kill himself. Where will that leave you?" There is acid pooling in those whispered words, threatening to burn its accusation into Volterra's stone.

Aro shakes his head lightly, aiming for decisiveness. "He will not. We are his only remaining family. Surely that is enough to keep him from madness."

Silence falls for a handful of heartbeats as the coven thinks of Marcus. He grieves like a feral thing, flickering between days of snarling, volatile viciousness and catatonic stillness. Neither speaking nor listening, he is Orpheus with Eurydice torn away, counting the moments until death claims him as well.

"He cannot end his life of his own accord," Aro continues, his previous point woefully lacking.

"What will stop Marcus from throwing himself into a bonfire?" Athenodora asks politely, a clever schoolgirl finding a flaw in her teacher's reasoning.

"Perhaps he may be reminded that he can avenge Didyme's death in the coming war," Sulpicia quickly suggests. She cannot bear the insinuation that her sister's death was a miscalculation; such a thought would push Aro to insanity's brink.

"He does not want vengeance," Caius says. "If we allow him to fight, he will be reckless and he will be killed. I have seen it before."

Caius' military reasoning is flawless, and Aro is about to inquire further, until the sound of footfalls on marble interrupts the discussion. Marcus has returned from a hunt with Felix, and his agony will only worsen if he overhears a concerned conversation about himself.

-

Sulpicia and Athenodora walk together, arms lightly twined around each others' waists in a gesture of affectionate sisterhood that may just be genuine.

"Are you alright?" Sulpicia asks cautiously. Athenodora keeps her emotions wrapped and pressed close to her chest; she has remained silent about Didyme's death.

Athenodora's silvery smile is gentle, "I only lost a sister. I do not need to keep my mate's secrets as well."

Perhaps Sulpicia is slow in smoothing surprise off her features, because her companion shrugs faintly and continues, "Yes, I know, and what I don't know, I can guess." Her voice is level, devoid of accusation. "Perhaps I sympathize, a little," she adds.

Sulpicia is uncertain how to respond. She has always assumed that her youngest sister is a sweet, wide-eyed little thing, fluttery and soft as tumbling feathers but Athenodora has her own masquerades. That merits some respect in Sulpicia's eyes.

She tightens her arm around Athenodora's waist in a quick little hug and gives her a conspiratorial smile. Sulpicia will test unknown waters tentatively, but she recognizes an ally when she encounters one.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I just realized that I haven't spent any time on Sulpicia and Athenodora's relationship. Usually, they are portrayed as awesome best friends or irreconcilable enemies. There's a lot of ground between the two extremes, and I'd like to explore that a little.


	26. games

**.:games:.**

As the soft pewter light of a stormy dawn shimmers through arcs of stone, Aro fastidiously smoothes dark robes which only call attention to the bruised hollows beneath his eyes. Though carelessness cannot tarnish the intrinsic immortal grace that clings to him, there is an unspoken imperative to appear regal, to overwhelm and ensnare, as a war approaches.

Casting his eyes in Sulpicia's direction, Aro watches his mate pin her heavy plaits into a coronet around her head, honey and amber in the morning's ghost- light. Even in this unguarded moment, with unruly waves slipping away from her nimble fingers and her too-slender wrists moving in elegant arabesques, she is haunting enough to coax a jolt from his still heart.

Impulsively, he glides beside her and weaves his arms around her ribs in an awkward, crushing embrace. As he buries his lips in the raw silk of wheaten curls, her twined braids fall apart.

"Thank you, Aro. That was certainly called for," Sulpicia says, a playful giggle in her muffled voice.

"I've missed…" he pauses for a moment, a free hand tracing slow circles in the air as he searches for the correct words. "I have missed _this._" He cannot easily recall the last time he has merely lounged in his wife's arms, watching the orderly madness of her blossoming thoughts.

Catching the silvery traces of a new idea edged with fear, Aro's mind changes direction. "You will not fight," he says, and this is the first time he gives his wife an order in the voice of an emperor.

"I do not pretend to know how," she responds with a smile that could almost be modest, if Sulpicia knew what humility was.

He snorts at such an obvious understatement, the image of her lethal loveliness enmeshed in battle sparking his imagination and twisting the twin cords of desire and panic running through his chest.

"You are a distraction, my dear," Aro whispers. "And you are certainly more precious to me as a lover than a weapon."

"Very sweet, if not particularly practical," she remarks easily, then looks back at her garnet-eyed reflection. "Now will you let me tidy my hair in peace?"

He steps back with a chuckle. There is nothing feigned about her ethereal glee, her supreme, careless serenity. It is as though Sulpicia sees the whole world as a checkered board, with her allies, lovers and acquaintances neatly placed in designated squares of dark and light, ready to move and fall at her word and whim. Not that this view particularly troubles Aro, of course. That is exactly how it should be.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I imagine that Sulpicia could be absolutely deadly on a battlefield, but Aro has his reasons for keeping her away (her being a bit of a sociopath probably factors in quite heavily).

As always, I'd like to thank everyone who has reviewed and faved the previous chapters. I don't always have time to reply to each review, but I am very grateful :).


	27. righteous

**.:righteous:.**

A vampires' war, Sulpicia learns, is not customarily fought on a barren plain with soldiers scattered in etched lines and generals behind the ranks, but Aro and Caius have no tolerance of tradition. As they plot and scheme, she comes to understand that if her coven seeks victory's laurels, they will wear a cloak of honour and righteous wrath.

"If we face the eastern coven in numerous small skirmishes, we will be defeated, and Stefan and Vladimir do not take kindly to insurrection," Caius explains quickly, mostly for her benefit, she assumes. Marcus and Aro comprehend the intricacies of hostility, while something in Athenodora's sharp eyes indicates that she too is familiar with the rudiments of strategy, sparking curiosity in Sulpicia's mind as to what her sister discusses with her mate amidst ruffled sheets and the firefly-light of stars.

"Perhaps a few covens will choose to ally themselves with us, but I cannot be certain of that," Caius continues. There is something feral, the wariness of a grizzled wolf in winter hidden behind his words, the spectre of defeat already haunting him.

"Of course we will find supporters. We simply wish to avenge a beloved sister's death and to defy tyrants who rule from afar. It is a common weakness, to have sympathy for the downtrodden," Aro says with a radiant, benevolent smile. "Besides, my cautious brother, our numbers may not rival those of the eastern coven, but our gifts undisputedly will."

"Marcus, Sulpicia, Athenodora, do you have anything to say?" Caius demands, meeting the gaze of three silent watchers. "Your lives are forfeit as much as mine if we are not victorious."

Marcus gazes ahead with a skull's eyes while Athenodora bites the corner of her mouth, perhaps restraining herself from a tirade. Sulpicia fishes blindly for words, wondering whether to demand how probable defeat is in Caius' military mind, or to reassure that she does not fear a second death, a patent lie.

Instead, she presses her lips together and says nothing at all.

-

A coven and their guard move through night's shadows with lethal, dancing grace, first north, then east until the ground glimmers white beneath their feet and frozen crystals cling in frigid, feathery arabesques to the hems of dark cloaks.

Word has most certainly spread of their seemingly haphazard, passionately spurred campaign against Stefan and Vladimir, enough to earn them the allegiance of a handful of nomads. It balances the odds, though not enough to loosen the silence that thrums between Aro, Caius and Marcus like a plucked harp-string.

Finally, they stand in neat formation, a spiked blossom amidst stone and snow, facing a coven that has an empire of a thousand years to lose.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'm sorry this chapter took so long to post. I wrote another Aro/Sulpicia fic during the previous week, and I was suffering from a mild case of Volturi burn-out. Regular updates of this fic should resume now. Thanks for your patience :)


	28. supremacy

**.:supremacy:.**

The first moments of war are a tangle of newborn limbs as clumsy, ill-trained vampires snarl and tear at each other with the sharp-toothed eagerness of mongrels. From her sheltered position behind the crouched ranks, Sulpicia thanks the gods above and below when she sees the survivors rise, ashy cloaks marking their allegiance.

Fires are lit, spreading decayed smoke like putrid incense, and in the hellish half-light of smoldering stone, the true battle begins. The gifted guards weave through the lines of the eastern coven, their skills weighed against sheer numbers and found lacking. Now, the hisses and mewls of terrified pain are in familiar voices.

-

Sulpicia has never seen her mate fight, but when fortune's scales are tipped against his favour, Aro cannot feign reticence. He steps forward, flanked by his brothers, and his smile gleams like drawn steel.

Marcus kills with the sightless savagery of the damned, while a grim reverence marks Caius' motions. It is Aro who frightens, a child's grin painted upon his features as his nails find his opponents' eyes with a vulture's precision. The blinded are easy marks for even the lowliest of guards.

In the end, the battle's tide turns inexorably around a barbed triumvirate who leave only writhing limbs and the taste of heady desire for supremacy in their wake.

-

"They should flee," Athenodora murmurs, gazing at Stefan and Vladimir with remote eyes.

"That will not save them," Sulpicia remarks, twining cold, brittle fingers around her sister's wrist.

"You wish to make an example out of them," she says evenly. "If it were me, I would run."

"They seem to be following your advice, little sister," Aro's mate says with a cat's cruel smile, observing Stefan and Vladimir's retreat.

"I suppose that makes us victorious." Only Athenodora can say this with all the enthusiasm of commenting upon the weather.

-

Hours later, when the walls of an ancient stronghold are reduced to far-flung rubble, when the guards congregate in small knots to count the living and mourn the lost, five immortals stand beside one another in cautious silence. There are no hurried embraces, no celebration of survival. Suddenly, the magnitude of a fledgling empire closes around them, and for a moment they are nothing more than frightened children inventing the law.

"What now?" Caius demands, looking to Aro for direction.

"We will return home," he replies, catching Sulpicia's palm between his fingers, seeking the comfort of touch at last. Before they gather the guard, Aro lightly brushes the ashes and snow from his mate's hair, fresh constellations of scars feathering his hands.

* * *

**Author's Note:** In _Breaking Dawn,_ I remember Stefan and Vladimir mentioning something about wanting to gouge out the eyes of the Volturi. It's an effective tactic in battle, and I thought it would be interesting if Aro initially employed it against them. He strikes me as the type who would.


	29. homecoming

**.:homecoming:.**

Their homecoming is a subdued affair, marred by a waiting hush, as an unseen weight shifts its shadow upon them. The battle's brevity and its brutality make an impression, indelible scratches in stone; the guard looks at its masters with caution now.

Mercurial word spreads, from the eastern steppes to the northern taiga, about a coven risen from Rome's ashes, cloaked gods who forge the law. The rumours speak of loveliness hedged by perfect madness, of immortals who play games of their own devising, using lives as pieces.

Eventually, a name is given to them, a bastardized title cobbled together in a dozen tongues: the _Volturi_. It invokes the patience of death, coming with the sweep of dark wings on a pewter horizon, not cruel but viciously, terribly unfeeling.

Aro smiles. The title, he believes, suits his dear ones rather well.

-

_We are changed_, Sulpicia thinks, then wonders what has bidden this unfamiliar, staining observation into the gleaming precision of her mind. Time carries only sentimental significance, and she is quite certain that her companions ignore its bindings.

The passing of days proves her incorrect, bringing to light small deficiencies. The first absence she marks is the disappearance of Caius' laughter, the odd gallows humour that is as customary as his barbed temper. Her white-haired brother loses the softness at the edges, not gradually, but in a moment, as thought it has been snuffed out, a candle overturned. Sometimes, Sulpicia sees him with his arms tangled around Athenodora, holding her so tightly that handprints would mark her spine if she were mortal. _Desperation_, Sulpicia thinks, and does not understand.

She does not know how to detail Marcus, even within her own thoughts. In the eyes of the mind, she sees him as a wraith, though she cannot fathom the bonds that keep him anchored to the red rock of Volterra.

Aro—she smiles when she thinks his name, an exquisite, treacherous grin. He is blindly joyous, pleased with his new empire, a glowing, gleaming plaything stretched before him to rule and watch and explore. No specters haunt him in the daylight hours, and he is untouched by the chilly menace of fear.

Perhaps stirring of wariness trouble her at times, when her mate chooses to spend nights in his study among his books and curiosities. It strikes Sulpicia in a bitter moment that the known world could, during its better days, fascinate Aro more than she does. The ruffled lace of her vanity does not like this thought, but unpleasant ruminations have become a recent habit.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I apologize for my lack of updates. There are frightening things such as midterms in my immediate future, and they have a way of consuming my time.

As always, an enormous thank-you to everyone who reviewed. Comments are always appreciated.


	30. weakness

**.:weakness:.**

Though the midwinter night is rimed with frost, Sulpicia stands alone on a terrace, gazing into the blue. Beneath her, Volterra's bells toll and chime, sending pigeons wheeling amidst spires and calling sleepy inhabitants to the midnight mass. It is the birthdate of their Nazarene, and Sulpicia supposes they must celebrate, chasing away chill darkness with candlelight.

It is restlessness that drives her to the parapets, the caged loneliness of a tame falcon that thirsts for the open sky.

Aro, Caius and Marcus have departed, moving towards the north, where rumours speak of children frozen in immortality. The little things are vicious, toddlers with the strength of gods, and already, the Russian covens tear each other apart to protect them. In the absence of rulers and their coterie, the castle echoes, every breath and footfall amplified just enough to be disturbing.

Her sister, a fellow wraith left behind, is not the easiest of companions. Quiet Athenodora needs only her books and her torchlit silence, occasionally marred by spilled blood. It is a strange clash, the reluctant partnership of a woman solitary by nature coupled with a creature independent through pride.

The remaining guards treat the wives with wariness, an understandable sentiment in Sulpicia's mind. If, for only the slightest sliver of a moment, they falter and consider the cool silk of their mistresses' skin, their deceptive, fawn-eyed loveliness, Aro will see and Caius will punish.

She loathes the tentative reverence, the sepulchral silence of her home. Her place in this empire is that of a pretty ornament behind glass, and she resents it with the fury of a goddess scorned. When Aro turns to her, it is only because there is no justice to mete out, no treasures to covet and no _dear ones_ to observe.

She hates him for it, and her fingernails carve crescents into the stone of the balustrade.

Athenodora's approach is silent, unnoticeable until she curves a graceful arm around Sulpicia's waist and smiles a little as the snow feathers and drifts around her, crowning her undone hair with crystals that cannot melt.

"My dear, my dear, it's not so dreadful here." Her voice is smooth, the melodic sweep of a bow across a cello's taut strings to Sulpicia's trilling flute.

"Am I so easy to decipher?" the golden immortal demands.

"I have known you for too long," Athenodora says, silver and soothing as always.

"What would you have me do?" Sulpicia hisses. "I cannot bear this place."

"Could you bear departing? I think not. You would miss me, of course." A hint of laughter touches her tone.

"Of course," Sulpicia smiles, but her eyes are cool. Even now, reduced to decoration and diversion, she cannot envision leaving Aro's side.

It is weakness, and dependence, and more than a little love. She wishes to shatter something.

* * *

**_Author's Note:_** I have no excuse for the lack of updates, but I have written a plan for the next plot arch within this story, so more updates should transpire soon.

Athenodora's line beginning with "_My dear, my dear..._" is taken verbatim from Edna St. Vincent Millay's poem, _Prayer to Persephone_. That poem was my favourite piece of writing, a long, long time ago.

Interesting characters such as Jane and Carlisle will be making an appearance in future chapters. That's something to look forward to, I think. :)


	31. reverence

**.:reverence:.**

Aro, Caius and Marcus return in soot-stained cloaks, tessellations of frost marking their snowy flesh. Something circles them like the grim wings of ravens over scarred ground, and the hollows beneath their eyes whisper that the battle behind them was a difficult one.

Amidst the torches, the play of flame and darkness in the entrance hall, Sulpicia watches warily. Her mate seems tarnished, frayed at the edges, and she can do very little but slip a slender hand upon his shoulder, touch the arch of his cheekbone with her lips and guide him in the direction of the baths, ashes dusting her fingers.

-

"What is your opinion of children?"

Beneath Aro's splayed palms, Sulpicia squirms, remembering the scampering, sobbing, sticky monsters that were her siblings and cousins. Her mate bites back a laugh, images of honey-haired toddlers unfurling behind his eyes.

"Perhaps I should clarify, love. I was speaking of adolescents, young enough to be biddable, but old enough to comport themselves in accordance with our laws."

Sulpicia taps a contemplative finger against the bow of her lower lip. "What is the advantage of juvenile immortals?"

"The children I saw in the north were, for the most part, unruly, wild little things. A handful were gifted and—" Aro's eyes widen in reluctant admiration, "and their gifts were formidable. Utterly uncontrollable, of course, but potent nonetheless."

"You believe that youth enhances power, then?"

"Adolescence is, as I remember it, a trying time. Physical change and sudden emotion may hone particular gifts, perhaps amplify them. It is merely a fancy certainly, but I intend to test it, when the time comes."

"Where do you aim to find these children? Surely we cannot simply take the promising ones from their parents. The cities do not need to hear tales of demons who prey on the young," Sulpicia remarks, recalling the potency of rumour coupled with panic.

"I suppose I will have to act with more subtlety. Ah, but I am boring you with talk of poorly-laid plans. Have I mentioned how much I have missed my lovely wife?" His speech bleeds into kisses, inky hair tumbling onto her shoulders as his mouth catches hers.

Sulpicia has never been adept with sentiment, and she stumbles, seeking the words to express the weakness that walks hand in hand with love, the dizziness, the loneliness, the _hunger_.

Perhaps Aro catches the errant thoughts veiled by silence, because he pauses for a heartbeat and smiles, pressing a reverent kiss upon the palm of her hand.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This is one of those dreaded filler chapters that sets up events but isn't all that interesting. Sorry about that, guys. On that note, enjoy the Aro/Sulpicia fluff while it lasts. (Good authors foreshadow in the story. Fledgling ones, such as yours truly, do it in the author's note).

Reviews, as always, are better than chocolate.


	32. malleus maleficarum

**.:malleus maleficarum:.**

When Aro shares the news of the witch-hunts with his brothers, he is met with a heartbeat of silence and crimson-eyed confusion.

"You cannot believe the words of the bishops in Rome, Aro," Caius dismisses. "Witches are fables for frightened humans, and the accused are at best madmen, heretics and whores."

"For the most part, dear brother, I agree with you. In their zeal, however, I fear that our misguided mortals may stumble upon the gifted among them, and give them to the flames."

A weary look etches itself upon Caius' features, "Of course. You have someone in mind already."

"Twins," Aro announces gleefully. "A boy and his sister, from the shires. The villagers already call them cursed, and they are scarcely more than children."

"What are their gifts?" Marcus asks; his voice remains still and sad.

"Jane can harm people, seemingly by the power of her thoughts alone. Alec's ability remains unknown to me, but Eleazar assures me that it is indeed present." Aro's giddy glee is impossible to extinguish. "If I can keep them unharmed until perhaps their seventeenth birthday, I cannot imagine the extent of their power."

By some cruel irony that is lost on no-one, the tide of the witch-hunts reaches the English countryside only months later, and Aro's precious children are the first consigned to the fire. With a grimace, he hastens west, knowing that he will be forced to change Jane and Alec into volatile, adolescent immortals that were only intended to be experiments.

-

They are beautiful, these witch twins, cradled in Aro's arms and tenderly wrapped in his stained traveller's cloak. The coven clusters around their flimsy forms, though the stench of charred flesh and singed hair clings to them, abhorrent to their sharpened senses. Their porcelain features are innocent; sweet depictions of sleeping children chiseled by skilled hands, though their breathing is hoarsened by pain.

Athenodora takes the boy, who mewls feeble words in a language that is not hers as soon as cool fingers brush mouse-coloured hair from his eyes.

"He will be alright," she decides, touching the place on his neck where a feeble pulse patters persistently. "What of his sister?"

"Little Jane has suffered greatly," Aro murmurs, "but I am certain that she will endure the transformation. She is, after all, a magnificent creature."

Sulpicia wonders what loveliness, what majesty her mate sees in this shattered bird of a girl, what grace hides beneath earth-coloured eyes with the lashes burned away. The question is not voiced; Aro's brow furrows as he dips his mouth to the child's throat in a kiss that blossoms with crimson petals. She knows not to trouble him when a treasure's lifeblood stains his lips.

* * *

**Author's Note:** As you may have guessed, we're entering the Jane/Aro story arc in this chapter. I've only written one Jane/Aro fic before, so I come asking a favour. I know that I have a lot of Jaro shippers in my reading audience, and I'd like you guys to give me feedback if I'm writing the pairing in a way that makes you unhappy. They're not my absolute favourite couple, you see, and I haven't had much practise writing them.

Basically, bring on the concrit/ suggestions/ ideas. I'll listen.

The title of this chapter translates to "the hammer of witches" and was the name of a book, detailing how to find, torture and execute suspected practitioners of magic.


	33. savior

**.:savior:.**

Someone has taken great care in dressing the twins, favouring crimson confections of shimmering silk and glorious brocade that call attention away from their fourteen years. Nonetheless, the cherubic grace of their childlike faces is marred by apprehension, and Sulpicia does not miss the emphatic tangle of their fingers, interlaced in ivory knots.

Their trepidation is understandable, Aro's mate believes. Jane and Alec have only woken from the inferno of metamorphosis a week ago, and these early days are raw and tottering, delicate as featherless birds. No-one deserves to be paraded in front of five ancients with eyes that flay the flesh away, and Sulpicia is selfishly grateful that she has been spared that ordeal.

"My dears, I would like to present you to my family and your masters," Aro announces, inflecting the final word carefully. He makes hasty introductions, antique names slipping off his tongue with ease. Athenodora is the only one to offer them a smile.

"The twins are wonderfully gifted. It is truly a blessing that they have joined us," he continues, hands clasped delightedly, garnet eyes aflame with the mad joy of acquisition.

"We have been made aware of this repeatedly, Aro," Caius says. "Perhaps you will deem to inform us about the nature of these precious talents?" Something in his tone suggests that no ability can vindicate the rashness of his brother's actions.

"Oh Caius, if only I could find volunteers upon whom our lovely newcomers could demonstrate their skills," Aro purrs. "You see, little Jane can inflict the sensation of being burned alive upon her victims. Quite painful, I assure you, but so very, _very_ interesting. And dear Alec can rob an entire army of their senses at will. Can you begin to the fathom the usefulness of this gift, brother?"

"Their talents are unique, certainly," Athenodora concedes, carefully bridging the divide between Aro's elation and her mate's wrath.

"Given their youth, I anticipate a few…ah, incidents, before they learn to control themselves fully. I ask each of you to assist them, should the need arise," he concludes, his gaze expectant.

Aro speaks as though the little immortals are mere pets, incapable of drawing meaning from his words, and Sulpicia presumes that in their present state, this assumption approaches accuracy, until she sees Jane, whose eyes cling to Aro's every gesture and word like thorns and thistles.

_Silly, muddle-headed little thing_, she thinks, _confusing saviors and monsters._ The smile that blooms upon her lips is very pretty, and more than a little scornful.

* * *

**Author's Note:** A thank-you for the reviews I received for the previous chapter. They were very helpful, and I appreciated all of them.

A reviewer named Team Caius brought up the point that there is no mention of Jaro as a pairing in canon. I am in full agreement with this. However, Jane is presented as very fond of Aro, reliant on him for praise, jealous, and fiercely loyal to her master. In some ways, she seems like an adolescent girl with a crush, which is more than possible to my mind. If this is the case, than Aro is certainly aware of her feelings and it seems very much in-character for him to encourage her, for all the wrong reasons. Rest assured, this fic will end up being Aro/Sulpicia, but the Jaro story arch is so prevalent in fanon that I could not avoid exploring it. I hope this explanation clears some things up.

On a slightly related note, I got a formspring account (link on my profile), and if you have questions, or want a personal response to an anonymous review, do not hesitate to use it and ask me.


	34. bereft

**.:bereft:.**

In the cherry-stained shadows cast by the setting sun, Sulpicia is glorious, a goddess of flame and garnet.

"Look at you, my heart. You are lovely," Aro croons, weaving gentle arms around her middle, inquisitive lips tasting the hollows of her collarbones as the heady scent of crimson-beaded pomegranates curves in tendrils around him.

Sulpicia turns to unyielding granite in his embrace, Aro notes guiltily, remembering that he has not sought his wife's touch in weeks. The moment smoothes itself as her tapered fingers loop and twine through his ebony hair and thus ensnared, he is pulled into a kiss that tastes of bonfires and night's silence.

"You are happy," she remarks, and the chord of remorse is struck once more as Aro recalls that he has not heard his mate's laughter in a long while.

"You make it so," he responds, and his eager mouth turns tender, touching the places on her skin where sunlight draws red refractions.

It is a peaceful interlude, torn by heavy footfalls followed by a staccato of reluctant steps. The irritated rhythm of a fist against the door announces Caius' arrival a breath before his voice is raised.

"Aro, your aberrant experiment is employing her gift against my guards," he says curtly, and the dark-haired immortal hears a stifled sob, likely bitten back by little Jane, whom his brother has brought. "Correct her conduct, before my hand is forced."

With a sigh, he breathes a muffled apology to Sulpicia, his hands hastily straightening ruffled robes, before he steps outside his chambers to soothe whatever hurts his precious new pet has caused.

-

"Explain what happened, dear one," Aro orders. After prying Jane from Caius' grip, he sits her down on a chair in the antechamber, and awaits justification for her actions. Yearning to gain her confidence, he loops his fingers together and does not reach for her, trusting her fluting words to voice her thoughts.

In her trembling, trilling voice, the lank-haired doll murmurs something about Felix and his barbs, cruel words that singe like sparks and set aflame the tinder of her temper. It is an adolescent's hurt, and he does not listen to more than a few phrases, though his memory casually notes the frailty of her wrists, the cherubic fullness of her features. He is certain that a painter can be found to do this little one justice in oil and canvas.

She has stopped speaking, and Aro cautions her to obey Caius, to disregard the words of her peers before telling her to seek her brother. Jane exits his mind as quickly as she departs from his presence.

-

When he returns to his chambers, the candles are lit and Sulpicia is absent. Feeling uncommonly bereft, Aro finds his way to his desk, and wonders where in the castle his mate has wandered.

* * *

**Author's Note:** As always, I thank you for the reviews I received for the previous chapter. They were all very much appreciated.

As you most likely can tell, I am trying to introduce strain in Aro and Sulpicia's relationship, before Jane's feelings become obvious, so Aro's interactions with his mate will be limited in future chapters.


	35. wonder

**.:wonder:.**

"What do you know of the witch twins?" Sulpicia asks Athenodora. She has sought refuge in her sister's chambers, airy as the sky and sea, harshly unlike the sombre, spilled blood-and-wine majesty of her own rooms.

"Everything you know, I'm sure," Athenodora says, wrenching a comb through the snarls in her wet hair. The discomfort of tangles caught in tines is not nearly enough to erase the arches of a gentle smile from her claret-coloured mouth, and Sulpicia wonders how this feathery, wintry creature retains her ephemeral sweetness.

"Very well, I will rephrase the question. What is your opinion of them?"

"I pity them." Athenodora's voice is sterile. "Especially the girl," she amends.

"Why? Caius is certainly not fond of her."

"Caius is certainly not fond of anyone," she replies, but her expression is indulgent. Then, Athenodora's words are a wary whisper. "You have heard of the manner of the twins' execution, no doubt?"

Sulpicia nods, remembering their sentence of death in fire.

"Are you aware of Aro's supposition about the nature of their gifts?" Seeing her sister's puzzled expression, Athenodora continues. "The mortals have grown skilled at their punishments. Generally, they err on the side of mercy and place too much wood on the bonfires. The accused witches die choking, long before the flames reach them. If, however, the humans feel vengeful, they do not give the fire enough tinder and the prisoner burns slowly while still alive."

"Of course. Alec numbs, because he felt no pain during the final moments, and Jane replicates her own suffering." Sulpicia's face is elegant, untouched by empathy, but perhaps revealing a whisper of scholarly inquisitiveness. "My husband has made no mention of this."

"It is not a pleasant idea," the younger immortal suggests. "Perhaps Aro did not wish to upset you with the frightening details."

Sulpicia bites back a snort, almost forgetting centuries of perfectly polished manners. Aro has no sensibilities, delicate or otherwise, and he treats his love as a councilor, assuming her ruthlessness mirrors his own. There is little she can say to make her younger sister comprehend the chill of discomposure she feels at her mate's sudden silence, and she is given no time to try. Caius returns to his chambers and the glance he shares with his wife seals them into their own elaborate world, where Sulpicia has no place.

She breathes her excuses and vanishes, wondering why her gentle, strange Athenodora cannot soothe her, and why the arrival of a child she has not yet spoken to unsettles her so.

* * *

**Author's Note**: The practice of controlling how quickly a person died while being burned at the stake did indeed happen. Sometimes, death could take a few hours. It's a horrifying thought, but Jane's sadistic tendencies need to be addressed, and torture by fire explains them quite well.

As always, an enormous thank-you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter. I'm in the middle of studying for finals, so I may be even more terrible than usual at responding to reviews.


	36. innocent

**.:innocent:.**

Jane proves herself a difficult child, splintering and shrieking while her shoulders shiver beneath spidersilk lace. Her screams, carrying and distorted by porous stone, drive even her brother away to seek stillness. Then, only as a desperate remedy, Caius' snarling impatience and Marcus' hollow-eyed stare drive Aro to her side.

-

"Jane, Jane…" Aro murmurs, "you cannot continue like this, little one. Dear though you are to me, you must not be a disruption to the others." Hurt carves itself upon the delicate, upturned face in strokes and lashes, before the girl angles her head away, concealing her injury behind a fringe of lank, sparrow-coloured hair.

Aro sighs then, unaccustomed to wounding words. Silver-tongued and dancing in his speech, he does not cause pain inadvertently. "Very well. Tell me your reasons for _this._" He gestures around the ruined room, a mausoleum littered with porcelain and marble that was once the lifework of gifted hands.

The witch girl meshes her fingers in the fabric of her dress, but her reticence cannot intervene against the avalanche of truths that slips stubbornly from her lips.

"The guard—they hate me, they all do. I do not understand why, they are fond enough of Alec, and his gift is more frightening than mine. I do not want this and I cannot bear this. How can it to be that even monsters condemn me?" She does not lament like a child; the words fall hard and quick as summer hail, leaving only ruin and ice in their aftermath.

He opens his arms and embraces her then, lightly as he would when scabby-kneed Didyme showed him her scrapes or whispered her nightmares into his ear. Jane is too fine-boned to fit comfortably against him, a tremulous, underfed bird of a girl, but the touch soothes her, loosening knots of wrath and agony. Though there is tenderness to be found in the moment, Aro's curiosity cannot be reined by any emotion, and enquiring fingers brush the translucent skin at her neck.

_Want._

It assails his senses in rivulets that become waves. The feeling itself is childish, love and adoration entwined with lust that is incongruously innocent. The intensity…ah, but that is Jane's undoing. A bond such as this surely glows like heated steel in Marcus' mind.

Immediately, he wonders who will advise him about the intricacies of adolescents in love. Perhaps he should ask Athenodora, who is patient, or Sulpicia, who has a gift for bluntness.

_No,_ he hastily corrects himself. _Sulpicia will not know_. It is a strange sentiment for one who tells his mate all, secrets pressed between the tangled sheets and kisses that mark their marriage.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Jane's feelings for Aro are unique in their intensity, but given her relative youth and lack of judgment, she's more in love with the construct in her head than the man in front of her, because she really has no way of knowing her master. I'm hoping that this puts Aro's response to her emotions in context; it's not that he's never been loved before, but that he's never been the subject of absolute, single-minded devotion.

Reviews, as always, are better than chocolate.


	37. brothers

**.:brothers:.**

"You are not cautious, Aro," Caius says, eying his brother sternly, his tone implying that an exchange such as this should not be taking place.

"What are you referring to, little brother?"

"Jane. Is it wise to mislead an infatuated girl whose gift inflicts pain?"

"Caius, do not trouble yourself. It is innocent affection, a childish longing for approval, nothing more. As you said, she is very young."

"You are wrong." Caius states. "Perhaps, with great difficulty, you could convince me that she feels no lust towards you, but you cannot claim that it will remain this way."

"How much can little Jane change? She will not grow, and she does not have the head for extensive learning."

"Surely she will realize that there is more to…ah, affection, as you put it, than longing and fleeting touches. When her desires exceed what is proper between master and guard, how will you act?"

Aro sighs, perturbed for a moment. "I do not know. Perhaps I will leave that uncomfortable confrontation to you."

The snow-haired immortal snarls, wrathful and willful as always before his brother interrupts, "What would you have me do? I must buy her loyalty one way or another, and she is impossible to frighten."

"Have you spoken to Sulpicia about this ever-so-clever plan of yours?" A protective note brushes Caius' tone; he loves his golden sister, a quiet, unyielding sentiment bred by a thousand years of surety that her mate will wound her someday. Aro looks away, before his brother notices that his words draw blood.

"You are antagonizing your wife while misleading an enamored little witch. This will end _brilliantly_," Caius growls under his breath, turning sharply and departing, likely to improve his mood by terrorizing the younger guards.

-

In a room with wide windows and jumbled furniture chosen by immortals straining to recall what childhood entails, a girl is enveloped by her twin's arms.

"You can't do this, Janie," Alec says. "Master Aro will never love you like that." His boyish bluntness wars with concern for his sister, but candor is victorious.

"I know." The whisper is a shard of porcelain.

"He has a mate, and do you remember what Heidi told us? Vampires wed for…for forever, and besides, you're only a child. Like me. We're a matched pair," he amends fondly when her heart splinters behind garnet eyes.

"How important could she be to Aro? We never see this Sulpicia," Jane gulps.

Minutes older and years wiser, her brother sighs. "Be cautious, sister. Your rival has been our master's wife for a long while, and she's probably as…scary as he is." He grins then, before his expression sobers.

"If you know nothing of her, it is only because she wishes it so."

* * *

**Author's Note:** There seems to be a trope in Volturi fanfiction, where nobody is aware of Jane's feelings for Aro. This strikes me as a little counter-intuitive; girls in love have never been the masters of subtlety. That's my reasoning for having most of the members of the coven being aware of her crush so early in the story.

Reviews fill me with glee and make me update faster :)


	38. flame

**.:flame:.**

The dawn insinuates itself through leaded windows, curving around columns, through porticos on curious cat-feet. Tendrils of mist whisper and wind, softening the light into an autumn shroud, clinging and dove-grey. On mornings such as these, Volterra's palazzo seems to slumber, its inhabitants entombed in their gloomy chambers until the bells chime the Angelus, marking the pulse that wakes the city.

Curled amidst rose-tinted silk, a delicate collection of sonnets pressed beneath her fingers, Sulpicia smiles like a contented kitten. Serenity and solitude are precious things, rare amidst the squabbles and raised voices that are the warp and weft threading the tapestry of her coven's bonds.

She expects the silence to linger uninterrupted for a few hours yet, untouched until the guards disentangle themselves from night's shadows and demand the attention of their masters, as boisterous children often do. No matter; Marcus can attend to them, should the need arise.

It is then that the quiet is scythed to ribbons by a single, choked scream that rattles between jagged agony and surprise. Sulpicia's fear is immediate, frigid flame lapping at the cavity in her chest; the tenor and pitch of Aro's voice is unmistakable, and it plucks a cold melody on the strings of her still heart.

=/=

Caius grits his teeth in ill-suppressed rage, while Athenodora at his side looks mildly concerned. Marcus' face is a perfect paper mask and Sulpicia is suddenly ashamed of her fright, the baseless, rushing sentiment of a woman who cares too deeply.

The sight before them is a tableau of majesty brought low. Aro reclines awkwardly against the wall, his chest falling with pained, unnecessary breaths. Beside him, Jane clasps her hands, her spun-sugar features contorted in an expression of perfect woe.

"My dear ones, you needn't have worried," Aro explains, his voice soft, harmless as falling feathers. "I merely asked Jane to show me her gift. It was...ah, unexpectedly potent."

"You are a damned fool! You trusted this child, this mad little girl with your life, with our future on a _whim_?" Caius is beyond coherence and reason. "Would it truly be too difficult to consider consequences?" He departs without a glance behind, and it is only Athenodora's hand on the small of his spine that prevents a shattered door in his wake. Marcus follows, wordless and uncaring.

Sulpicia stands alone then, in front of this shivering, shuddering girl and her shaken mate. She is certain that relief is called for, or sympathy perhaps, but only betrayal of the strangest sort rushes through her, sudden and molten.

Aro gives his confidence to this Jane, this guard without meaning, and she loathes the knot of closeness looping them together.

She spares the girl a look, quick and careless as that given to rat by a hawk, before ghosting away, leaving Aro with nothing but the memory of fire.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Somewhere in _New Moon_, Aro mentioned that Jane used her gift on him, at his request. I imagine that took quite a bit of trust between the two, which implies some closeness in their relationship. Of course, Sulpicia is not pleased. Bad things happen when Sulpicia is not pleased.

Reviews are wonderful and I treasure each and every one of them.


	39. gold

**.:gold:.**

The days slip by roughly, jagged beads strung on twisted wire. Sulpicia's wrath begins with gentleness, feathering and pale as late-autumn frost, then builds and sculpts itself into clouds on slate skies, promising a blinding blizzard. She scowls and snarls, until fawn-eyed Renata conceals her sobs beneath splayed palms, and the burly guards appointed to the wives edge to Athenodora's side, round-eyed and uncertain.

It is amusing, Sulpicia notes, how quickly Aro is reduced to blustering, stumbling over the simplest sentences, when she denies him the silvered silk of her skin. It is a small, unremarkable victory.

.-.

The amber sunset finds the tawny immortal curled in a disused parlor, alone but for spiraling dust and spider silk. The stillness is broken by rapid footfalls, carrying the telltale scent of whispering robes and the carved ebony of ancient thrones. Aro, she assumes, and turns away. When he enters the room, a book is thrown at him in a smooth movement, though Sulpicia does not spare him a glance.

"Leave," she commands.

"What have I done to deserve Catullus launched at my head?" Caius demands, cradling the offending tome between thin fingers.

"My apologies, Caius. I was expecting someone else."

"I've had worse things thrown at me. Now, would you care to explain why you are frightening the guards? By rights, you should be terrorizing Aro." He sits beside her, the space between small enough to lend familiarity.

"I have little to say to him," she dismisses.

"The witch girl is an irrelevance. Her appeal will end with her novelty, I promise you."

Sulpicia's skepticism cannot be politely contained before her brother. "Aro must keep his newest treasure satisfied," she muses, and there is implication behind those words.

"No. He must keep her loyal, and her happiness in that situation is insignificant," he replies, and she remembers why differing opinions are not voiced to Caius. "Is it not strange that your mate, though he seeks constant innovation, considers the unchanging his family, and the unique, his tools? His feelings for you are surely constant." His words are almost gentle.

"You are being altogether too patient. I sense Athenodora's involvement." Sulpicia's smile is thin.

"She was glaring at me."

Silence settles between them for a moment, until an ash-cloaked guard ghosts into the room and mumbles something about a newcomer whom Aro is seeing in the throne-room.

With a weary sigh, Caius stands, extending a hand to Sulpicia.

.-.

The stranger who strikes such curiosity in Aro is unobtrusive enough, standing in the center of the chamber, studying his feet as the final rays of sunset darken his wheaten hair. It is only reluctantly that he raises his head to look at the assembled masters and guard, something like trepidation shimmering behind the burnished gold of his eyes.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Did I just write Caius-and-Sulpicia hurt/comfort? Yes, yes I believe I did, and it was fun until Carlisle interrupted it with his usual impeccable timing. Rest assured that Sulpicia isn't anywhere close to forgiving Aro yet.

Reviews are love.


	40. treasure

**.:treasure:.**

Carlisle is a rarity, an immortal whose innocence gleams, sticky and luminous as wild honey, mirroring the alien hue of his tawny eyes. His infernal grace masquerades itself behind a façade of precious divinity, marred only by a child's fear that flitters in amber irises.

Sulpicia's first thought is a patron's observation that any artist in Italy will easily sacrifice his left hand to obtain the privilege of painting this golden creature, casting him as bright-eyed Apollo in milky marble, or perhaps as avenging Michael in a fresco decorating some shadowed, holy place.

It takes her little more than a week to remark that his righteousness rivals that of any archangel. Carlisle's murmured prayers weave themselves into the silken silence of dawn and nightfall, but piety is by far the most insignificant of his oddments. His aversion to human blood causes curious discussion amongst Aro and Caius, but to Sulpicia, it is the minutiae of his character that carry importance.

She notices the masked displeasure in his expression when Afton affectionately grazes a hungry mouth against his mate's throat, when little Renata darts amidst the pillars and stone in her bare feet, playfully chased by Demetri. The tangled, intoxicating notion of sex troubles him, but this is to be expected of a vampire who seems puzzled by guiltless, guileless joy.

Abstemious men amuse Sulpicia.

.-.

"Have you spoken to our guest, my dear?" Aro enquires, reaching for his wife's pale hand. She neatly moves it away from his grasp.

"He seems a very pleasant individual."

"You do not share my interest, I see," he notes, struggling to maintain a conversation amidst the perfect frost of Sulpicia's discontent.

"He is an intellectual conundrum, nothing more. We do not need a paragon of arbitrary morals among our numbers," she says, because her mate's enthusiasm chafes at the borders of logic.

"You must forgive my curiosity, love. It is so rare for someone as unexpected as our dear Carlisle to simply walk through our gates. I have no intention of keeping him here indefinitely."

"Liar," Sulpicia says, but a hint of a smile softens that condemnation. Aro takes the gesture as a small surrender and strokes the stray curls spilling about her cheekbones.

She does not respond because an idea introduces its serpentine coils into her thoughts. Carlisle is lost, a songbird amongst ravens, and she has no qualms about bending his loyalty to her will. Aro, with his manic glee, will startle their guest, but she can feign enough sweetness to draw him to her side. Her mate can play with his pawns and pets, but this Carlisle, an unparalleled treasure, will be _hers_.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This fic has almost hit two hundred reviews, and I would like to express my gratitude to all of you for reading. To show my thanks, I'm offering to write a one-shot (750-1000 words) about any character(s) within Twilight for each of the first three people who review this chapter and request this. If you're interested, please let me know through the review who you would like me to write about, and the general theme/idea/rating of the one-shot, if you have a preference.

Once again, thank you for taking the time to read this story.


	41. lust

**.:lust:.**

.-.

Athenodora, quiet and emphatically kind, worries about Carlisle as a sister would, perhaps remembering how thorny it was to be thrown into the maelstrom of her singularly neurotic coven. She sits by his side, an amicable shadow, and explains that Caius did not intend to inflict injury with his most recent, carelessly-flung comment, that Aro's schemes are not entirely the product of caprice and that Marcus' grief-tarnished stillness is impossible to circumnavigate.

.-.

After another such conversation, Athenodora wears a distant expression, edging towards the chilly plains of apathy.

"What is it that Carlisle said to you?" Sulpicia asks, looping a gentle hand around her younger sister's waist.

"It is not his fault that he is _annoying_," she fumes, disregarding the question. "I should not pass judgement upon him for that.

Sulpicia cannot help but laugh. "You are fond of everyone, Athena, deserving or otherwise. What prompted this response?"

"It is not his righteousness that chafes, but his fascination with sin. It seems that he is only moments from some terrible trespass, and he seeks mirrored flaws in each man, woman and occasionally child he encounters to mitigate this."

Aro's mate takes that observation, examines the facets and tucks it away, certain that she will find use for it later.

.-.

A few days afterward, Sulpicia finds herself standing in a pool of wavering firelight, haphazardly cast by torches behind the triplet thrones. As is customary, robes and cowls obscure features and display a darkened gradient of rank, with the exception of Carlisle, a luminous creature resplendent in honey brocade.

She observes his expression, the tawny-eyed gaze that wanders between curiosity and horror as Aro, Caius and Marcus preside over a judgement. The wrongdoer has created an immortal child, and though she knows nothing of the toddler's fate, she is certain that his maker will meet a second death shortly.

"Do you understand the repercussions of your actions?" Aro purrs, a careful façade of justice tempered by mercy upon his features, perhaps for Carlisle's benefit.

The accused remains silent.

"Very well. Jane, my sweet, if you will."

The flimsy wren of a girl wisps forward and suddenly the man is writhing and mewling upon slabs of stone. Finally, a confession scratches its way through his teeth, leaving striations and choking echoes.

"Lovely," Aro agrees and nods to the burly guards ensconced in shadow. There is flame, as always, and Sulpicia looks skyward.

Her bright eyes fall upon her mate just as he brushes a chalky mouth over Jane's full lips and murmurs feathery praise that strikes sparks upon the flint of the child's small heart. That flaunted betrayal flays her to the bone. Instead of wrath, she ghosts arched nails over Carlisle's cheekbone, coaxing him to gaze at her. The gesture, from the wrong angle, could be mistaken for comfort.

The starvation in his eyes speaks volumes scrawled in lust and blood.

.-.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Two out of the three one-shots requested from the previous chapter are posted. One, called _The First Gate_, occurs in the same universe as this fic and deals with a seduction of Carlisle by Sulpicia. If you don't like the notion of infidelity, or Carlisle consuming human blood, you may want to sit this one out. The other one-shot is Caius/Athenodora, and has nothing to do with this story. Just letting you know that it exists, is all.

As always, reviews will be loved dearly.


	42. a game of chess

**.:a game of chess:.**

"Carlisle, my friend, I am beginning to believe that you are purposely avoiding my company," Aro remarks, aligning pieces on a checkered board, the firebrands lending a mortal flush to the dusted porcelain of his patrician features.

"Forgive me, Aro. I have been spending my evenings with members of your guard. They are fascinating companions." The half-truth is an ill-fitting garment, wilting at the shoulders and terribly shabby beneath inspection, for the tawny immortal's mind sings of Sulpicia alone.

"Of course." The ancient's agreement is courteous, a polite patina of understanding as his knight neatly jumps his opponent's pale bishop.

An overturned pawn and a clumsy gesture to correct the slip reveal Carlisle's conscience as Aro's fingertips brush his palm.

A too-bright mosaic of his mate, an appalling fantasy or perhaps a treacherous reality, unfurls itself in Aro's mind . He observes, empty-eyed, then rises to seek his wife, leaving the board caught in unfinished, silent battle.

.-.

"What are your intentions with Carlisle?" Aro demands, and the question is monstrous, a beast's snarl that threatens to sever its ties with words and sanity.

Sulpicia arches a brow, a stretching, sinuous lynx of a woman. "I am ensuring his loyalty. I believe that you are doing something quite similar with Jane." The accusation rends the silence, bruising it with insinuation.

"Jane is a child. How you could consider such—"

"And Carlisle is an innocent. It seems to me that he is just as incapable of transgressions of the flesh as your witch girl," she replies, and her lips are gemstones as they concoct their lies.

"You are _mine._" Aro's fingers bind in chilly manacles around her wrists, leaving stony impressions. "I made you because I loved you, and you will not forget that you are at the mercy of my sentiments." An ember of fear in her eyes would soothe him, but Sulpicia's hiss is that of a serpent, venomous and unafraid.

"You gave me immortality, nothing else," she challenges. "In my absence, you would be a shadow, little more than a forgotten ruler of some hilltop kingdom with a coven comprising of yourself and possibly Caius, if fortune favoured you. We will not discuss who made whom"

Her audacity, relentless and searing, steals her mate's speech for a heartbeat, allowing Sulpicia to continue.

"You are entitled to your playthings, as I am to mine. If ever you repeat _this_," she gestures to the spider-web fractures marking her arm, "I will depart, leaving you to petty plots and the ghosts of your sins."

Her departure is graceful, a patter of footfalls and the silken susurrus of cloth on marble while Aro is left to reassemble the ruins, foreign grief tearing his ribs to bloody shreds.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This chapter is entirely from Aro's perspective, and for the purposes of this story, he has no idea as to the extent of Carlisle and Sulpicia's relationship. His gift for reading thoughts doesn't really equip him for distinguishing between fantasy and reality. Therefore, I leave it up the readers to decide for themselves whether there was physical infidelity, emotional infidelity or just fascination. I tend to agree with the first option, but that's up to interpretation.

An anonymous reviewer, danielle, wondered whether the Volturi wives have any interaction with the the guards in this fic. I assume that they do, but it's quite superficial. There is a marked power imbalance amongst the residents of Volterra, and I can see that interfering with any friendship between the coven and the guard.

Finally, a thank you for the reviews I received and to the new readers, welcome :)


	43. bitter

**.:bitter:.**

"Sulpicia, I have been meaning to speak with you." Carlisle lingers in the shadows, the edges of his garments bearing the sort of damage attributed only to moths and worrying, immortal fingers.

"Yes?" She refuses to indulge him now, to bridge the hollows and voids as his gold-spun grace splinters conversation.

Reluctantly, he sits at her side, a fidgeting child amidst the opulence of an era he cannot comprehend.

"I did not intend to cause a rift between yourself and your mate," he whispers, guilt stripping elegance from his voice, leaving only bones and threadbare, useless dignity.

"You did not. Our differences were present before your birth, much less your arrival." Seeing innocent woe tinting his features, Sulpicia entwines graceful fingers through his in a tight knit that only wrenches him closer, binds him without hope of escape to the red rock of Volterra.

"Do not think of departure, my sweet Carlisle. One dispute does not merit fleeing the only home you have known." Her smile is cool and still as an autumn dawn though her eyes spark maple-red while she memorizes the image of tangled hands.

If Aro chooses to pry into her thoughts once more, she must have something of interest to show him.

.-.

Aro is willful and wrathful, his temper wheeling madly between echoing, tomblike melancholy and rage that carves silence into bloodstained fragments. It takes only a day to drive Caius from his side and Marcus follows. Both are far too clever to step into a bitter battlefield where the ground itself is pockmarked and sown with salt.

Sulpicia notes that Jane throws her a few baleful glances, her eyes like obsidian, but the petulant anger of a child is a mere trifle. If Aro is reduced to seeking the sympathy of a mad little witch-girl, his mind has lost its sculptor's precision, a sure sign of a heart well and truly broken.

The smirk upon her features can be mistaken for cruelty but in the iron hours between midnight and dawn, she must admit that she does not know the purpose of her scheming. The only notion that comes to mind as justification is plainly, intolerably sentimental; she wishes for Aro to return to her arms, wounded and shattered to the marrow. Then, perhaps, she can press an eager mouth to his and soothe the hurt with caresses that echo half-forgotten days.

It is a fancy, fleeting and effervescent, as tangible as a mirage and as capable of enduring scrutiny. Sulpicia knows her flaw, and it is belief that Aro will exchange pristine pride for love, an ideal best reserved for metaphors.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I apologize for falling behind on updating and review replies. It's midterm season for my summer courses. What fun. I'll try to be more consistent with my updates, and your reviews are always appreciated.


	44. unsought

**.:unsought:.**

The sky is cold, streaked in grimy strokes by fitful falling stars. There is nothing beautiful to be found in the silence of this night. The quiet that lingers between Sulpicia and Aro is stretched, taut and translucent as skin over starving features.

Though they sit side by side, the distance between them nearly negligible, neither warmth nor comfort seeps into their shared presence. Together, they are merely two people shackled in coexistence because there is nowhere left to flee.

It is Aro who speaks first, his words crippled and uncertain.

"What must I do?"

Sulpicia looks ahead, uncomprehending and unwilling to be drawn into labyrinths of speech.

"What would you have me do to alter _this_?' He gestures blindly, but she understands that he reaches a hand to span the gulf, bleak and lightless, that yawns between them.

She tilts her head, only a little, to capture a glimpse of his expression. It is smooth, a mask of bone and stoicism, but here and there, she can see the beginnings of fissures.

"Break her heart," she demands. "I will not vie with Jane for your affection. You do not merit a struggle." The last words are cruelly flung, and she believes them with half her heart, which is the closest she can come to sincerity.

Aro smiles then, accustomed to slippery negotiation. "With pleasure," he murmurs, "if you subject Carlisle to equivalent treatment."

Sulpicia falters. "He is your companion," she whispers. "Would you have me accountable for his certain departure?"

"And Jane is my most cherished guard. I am, as always, willing to act against my interests for you, my dear." Though he veils his intent in the most diplomatic terms, she struggles to bite back flawless joy; admissions of adoration are spoken in many ways.

"Very well. I will speak with Carlisle at dawn. I suggest you choose some suitable gift to show him your affection and bid him farewell," she agrees, her voice featureless and barren.

"I will, of course, require your aid in that venture. You know him well," Aro says with no accusation. Instead, something wavering and tentative enters his tone; shadows and starlight mark the time for lovers, and this night will be the first in too many that he will spend by her side, though touch will be absent and speech will only concern dust-filmed treasures in stifled vaults.

"If you would like," Sulpicia says, and her mate's grin is jubilant, as though he only wishes for the opportunity to forage amongst moths and mildew for some precious trifle to bestow upon a troublesome guest.

An arm is proffered, and she loops her elegant hand through, letting fine-boned fingers rest on fabric. The intimacy of flesh and skin is yet a foreign thing, undesired and unsought, but the beginnings are present.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Behold, I update! I admit, I have been cheating on Aro/Sulpicia with a rather dark and manipulative Aro/Bella fic, but the former pairing is my love and the latter my one-night stand. I'm going to update this fic more often.

I've decided that this story will have 50 chapters, so the end is nigh. If you want to see something particular, let me know, and I'll try to incorporate it into the story.


	45. emptiness

**.:emptiness:.**

It is frightfully simple to push Carlisle away, to divert his thoughts and twist his nebulous loyalties. Sulpicia murmurs something about propriety, the spider-silk bond she shares with her mate and the allegiance she owes him, pressuring fractures until they form fissures beneath her fingers. That paltry handful of words is enough to permit a trickle of doubt, which will erode away rocky bindings, releasing a golden immortal from the confines of Volterra.

In the end, it will be his choice, of course. She has only smoothed the path.

.-.

Carlisle departs with some ceremony; the entire coven gathers to bid him farewell, though Marcus does not care for him and Caius is pleased at his departure.

"You must come back and visit," Athenodora chirps, brushing a chilly kiss across Carlisle's cheekbones. Sulpicia wonders if the inflection placed upon the final word is purposeful, a veiled caveat that his permanent presence is unwelcome.

"Indeed, we will be looking forward to it," Caius agrees, his voice cautiously level. Marcus only inclines his head in sullen acknowledgment.

Sulpicia settles for a swift touch of the hand, impersonal and irrelevant. There is too much left unsaid in the blackened gulf between them to be bridged by a kiss.

Aro smiles, the light turning his skin to wax, and offers his shimmering guest a painting depicting an unlikely quartet, glorious as gods. "Please, remember your time with us," he says. "We have all grown so fond of you.

It may be a ribbon-wrapped falsehood or a shred of tentative truth. Sulpicia does not care to postulate.

Then, as incongruously as he arrived, the sunny-haired catalyst vanishes to seek his fortune across the waves.

.-.

Before his wife can flee to her solitude and silence, Aro matches her stride with his.

Placing a seeking hand upon her shoulder, he spins her on the spot, until she faces him. A spatter of crimson upon her heart catches his eye, and he recognizes a necklace he draped about the neck of a mortal girl, a promise of immortality wrought in filigreed gold and garnet.

There is slinking sentimentality in that gesture, a plea that he recognizes.

He touches the bloody oval of stone, then lets his fingers creep onto her throat in a caress stitched with feathery, forgotten tenderness.

"I have missed you," he breathes as inky hair tumbles upon the striations of her collarbones.

Sulpicia only tilts her head, revealing the swan's arch of her throat and the too-proud set of curving lips.

The kiss is a wasteland until she knits her arms around him, clinging to flesh like shale with the tenacity of a falling girl. In a breathless moment, no emptiness remains between them.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Here we have the long-awaited reconciliation between Aro and Sulpicia. The next few chapters will be handling the emotional repercussions of their reunion.

As always, thank you for your reviews. They mean the world to me. If you'd like to see something specific in this story before the end (in five chapters!), let me know.


	46. once more

**.:once more:.**

The crimson-stitched silence of shared chambers is overbearing, and Aro seeks words with incautious fingers, as a clumsy child would chase butterflies. Though his mate curves beside him, a smile that skirts the edges of gentleness turning her mouth into something tender and tempting, he knows that this interlude of grace will not last.

He hesitates. Speech attempts to escape, clawing at his sealed lips with needle-fine nails, but he cannot summon the courage to tell Sulpicia that her absence and wrath muddy his mind and fill his chest with cutting echoes. Aro does not trust himself to describe the bleakness that accompanies separation, the sullen, shivering solitude wrought by the rift between himself and the last person living who knows his mind.

Instead, he interlaces his fingers through hers in a nervous knit of stone and desire. The kisses that tumble upon her cheeks like windblown snow are playful, offering her the possibility of retreat without tearing his heart asunder.

Sulpicia's grin shimmers, as though she knows this game but chooses to forgive its transparency. She winds her nails through his hair, wrenches him nearer and closes her teeth over his lip. Instants later, too-eager hands dart and seek, leaving only flesh and the jagged ribbon of ruined silk in their wake.

Passion unwinds itself into spiked shapes, lovely in their abruptness. It is a vicious reconciliation, a tableau of torn skin and muffled cries but violence and desperation are often found side by side.

.-.

When the candles have burned low, welcoming pooling shadows and shy moonlight, Sulpicia raises her head and examines her lover. There are fresh scars in unlikely places, but she is certain that the carnage is mirrored upon her own body.

She kisses him then, in a low, sweet sweep of curls and strawberry lips. _Mine_, her thoughts hiss and Aro is willing to accept that declaration.

"What did you tell Jane?" she demands, because sentimentality only holds her mind for moments.

"Listen," he says, and she stills. Through the usual tangle of night's noises, something much like weeping lingers in the black.

Sulpicia laughs, beautifully, perfectly delighted and Aro cannot help but think how lovely she is, scarred and slender with only the semblance of sanity glossing elegant features. Then, grimly and gladly, he realizes that there is nothing he will not shatter to coax that joy from her.

Although the gesture is far too gentle to complement their coupling, he draws her into his arms, following the miasma of her thoughts until questing fingers draw imagined heat and his eyes turn to ink once more.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'm fond of this chapter. It feels right, somehow, getting Aro and Sulpicia back together. Their combined craziness makes me glad.

Because you, my lovely readers asked, there will be more Caius (and some Athenodora) in the coming chapters. Why that man is so popular, I will never know.

Finally, I know that I'm terribly behind on review replies. Forgive me. I will try and do a better job.


	47. peace

**.:peace:.**

Athenodora is curved beside Caius, her garnet gaze fixed upon the rough-edged pages of a tome, balanced upon bony knees. She appears perfectly lost in images and words inscribed on fading parchment; the façade falls when he feathers his fingers upon silvered skin and she presses closer.

Caius has memorized every ephemeral gradation of his mate's expression, learning slender subtleties that indicate the shifting planes of Athenodora's grief and joy.

"You are happy," he observes, touching the arch of her upper lip with colourless fingers.

She shrugs slim shoulders. "They are no longer fighting." A glance in the direction of Aro and Sulpicia's chamber confirms the subject of her statement.

"And how long do you think that tentative peace will hold?"

Something skeptical spills upon her features, shading loveliness with ashen doubt. "About a day and a half at most," she decides.

"Precisely." His mouth finds the hollow at her throat where her pulse once was, and the kiss left there is grateful.

"Stop being a distraction," Athenodora insists. "I am attempting to eavesdrop."

He grins, before the shivering, crawling whispers of Jane's sobs intrude upon the periphery of his hearing.

"Will you speak with her?" Caius asks.

"I do not know Jane intimately enough to offer comfort."

"Would you prefer it if I attempted to sooth her?" There is no affection in his tone, only the promise of clumsy words that cannot piece together a child's splintered heart.

Athenodora's sigh carries the weariness of one who dedicates her days to repairing the wounds and sores inflicted by her careless, caustic sister during lovers' games.

.-.

Dawn paints the sky with cherry-stained light, coaxing cooing doves from spires as iron-edged bells toll a stately, funereal pulse.

Sulpicia remembers a morning much like this, a long while ago, when love was a heady thing, spilling and sweet as summer wine. It is a whimsical recollection, etched in her mind's eyes with bright, bold strokes; she is ashamed of its vividness, its youthful certainty and madness.

Aro's hand closes over hers with unnecessary gentleness, as though he seeks only the comfort of touch, not the intricate weave of thoughts. The kiss swept over her upturned lips is kind and she permits herself a moment of peace before drawing away with wary eyes.

There is something inelegant between them now, a gawkiness that stems from burned bridges mended too hastily, with hurried hands and honeyed, heedless words. Their ballet is disturbed, a mechanical dance between blind partners to discordant music.

For a moment, Sulpicia wonders if Aro can sense it as well, this creeping decay that touches and twists the frail bindings between them, but she knows better than to ask.

Her hands stumble with mortal clumsiness as she plaits sun-gilded hair.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Am I the only one who thinks that when Caius wants to do something kind, he delegates the task to somebody else? He's worked too long for his reputation to throw it away upon random good deeds.

On a completely different note, _A Thousand Stairs_ has been nominated for 'The Vampies', an award event aimed at Twilight vampire fanfiction. Thank you very, very much :D. I am so grateful for the nomination, and if you're interested in seeing the other nominees and participating in the voting process, there's a link on my profile. Please take a look at all the entries listed, because they're awesome.

As always, thank you for the reviews I've received for the previous chapter.


	48. ghosts

**.:ghosts:.**

It takes Sulpicia weeks to accumulate the courage, shard by flint-edged shard, to venture into the rooms that were once Carlisle's. She cannot name the root of her hesitation; her former companion is meticulous, and no trace of him will mar the chambers after his departure.

Perhaps it is the silence that she fears, the sunless spaces turned stifling without Carlisle's childlike wonderment to lend the mirage and delusion of light.

.-.

As she expects, dust has misted elaborately-wrought oak, veiling tapestries with feathery fog. Sulpicia allows her fingertips to leave clumsy prints, and flinches as her gaze falls upon the powdered patina of skin. Eternity has left its mark upon her, and that small ugliness dispels all thoughts but those painted by vanity in amethyst strokes.

Sulpicia smirks, sharing laughter with the lovely girl who bore her face and name long ago, whose only innocent sin was the spilling crimson of pride.

The merriment fades in moments, and she curls in a corner, heedless of a ruined gown and disturbed stillness.

It is far too simple to grow sentimental in the sepulchral serenity of a forgotten lover's room, to long for a dream-stitched past and a present that never was. She allows her fractured-mirror mind to linger upon untrodden paths, a landscape of nails and bone.

The loneliness would lose its adder's string if Didyme was here, perhaps, with her petal-strewn joy, or if Athenodora could speak to her without reining wary words. Sulpicia cannot quite recall a time when her palms were not raw and red with the guilt of a sister's death, and the facsimile of Marcus tugs at the weft of her thoughts like a haunted thing. There are other sufferers in the shadows, a grotesque array of wraiths from a macabre tale, led by a witch-girl with bitten hands, ragged impressions marking where her teeth close to stifle weeping.

Agony and memory walk with clasped fingers now, and Sulpicia does not want to consider the lost.

.-.

Aro finds her there hours later, her face feathered with colourless crescents, the echoes of torn nails. He sits beside her, wordless, and wraps a cautious arm around her, restraining himself to the press of fabric and flesh. For once, he permits his mate to carry her stained secrets.

He remains by her side, silent and soft as a shade, idly playing with a gilded tendril of her hair while she moulds herself into his embrace as a child would.

Sulpicia is no fool. She knows, oh gods she _knows_, that there is a barren plain strewn with ashes and salt between them, but time can coax verdant life from ruin.

Aro says nothing, but words are not necessary to keep the ghosts at bay.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I was asked to write a reflection chapter of sorts; this is it from Sulpicia's perspective. She isn't quite capable of remorse, but this is the closest she can get to it. You all seem worried about Jane- do not worry, I will wrap up her role in the story within the next two chapters.

Thank you so much for all of your reviews. I'm terrible at replying, but if you ask a specific question, I will do my best to get back to you.


	49. hope

**.:hope:.**

"Why are you here?" Sulpicia says, sorrow brushing her ribs with snow, turning her into a wintry creature from within. She is elegant in her madness and malice, grief lending unneeded beauty to a goddess.

"I worried for you," Aro breathes when her hands are no longer cat's claws, clutching and coiled at the cowl of his charcoal robes. It is a crippled dismissal of the gnawing, starving horror that tore his viscera to crimson rags when he grasped his mate's agony. "You, my beautiful one, do not yield to sentimentality."

She says nothing, shamefully content to remain caught in his arms, a fraught, flinty embrace that stumbles between luminous tenderness and iron-edged despair.

Aro considers telling her that the past is labyrinthine, not a place where one ought to linger in casual exploration but a statement so trite would only be a mockery. "I regret nothing we have done," he says. "Nor should you."

Only after the words have flittered away upon caustic wings does he realize that she is wounded by their unintended implication.

"I will never be first in your heart, then," she says, and her drowned eyes turn woeful and wild.

"Do not say that. I loved you long before the foundations of our empire were carved. I—I…" Honesty is not customary for him, and he seeks her hand, brushing small, sparking kisses upon her fingertips, allowing touch to span the silence.

"Do you believe that a declaration of affection will alter anything?" Sulpicia demands, turning to steel and flame in his arms.

"Yes."

"You oversimplify."

"Perhaps," Aro concedes, but the brilliance of his smile, feathery with hope, nearly convinces her.

When he pulls her to her feet and kisses her in a gesture that lingers between theatricality and sweetness, she cannot help but lose herself in a press of lips and dust-filmed sunlight.

.-.

When evening smears the shadows, Aro and Sulpicia wander away from Carlisle's chambers and the ghosts that dwell within. His arm is caught around her, and his eager grin finds itself mirrored upon her glorious features.

Although her mind wishes to twist itself into a warm, dream-tinged knot, she catches the memory of laughter winding through the halls. There is the patter of twin feet, and an echo of a chuckle that could only belong to little Alec. Perhaps it is some sort trick of sound, but Sulpicia is certain that Jane is giggling alongside her brother, a glimmer of long-discarded joy.

There is no chance that Jane's wounds have knitted and healed with such ease, she knows, but there is resilience found in madness. When Sulpicia sets aside the blood-blurred lens of hatred, she shares something like kinship with the girl, but it cannot hush the cadence of discordant triumph that darkens the dance of her mind.

Perhaps, someday, she will show Aro that particular thought.

* * *

**Author's Note:** As always, I thank all of you for your reviews. Your support is very much appreciated.

I will try and update in a timely manner, although exams are beginning, so I can't promise too much. That said, there's one more chapter to go, and then _A Thousand Stairs_ is done. See you on the other side :)


	50. cadence

**.:cadence:.**

It snows.

The flimsy film of crystal-beaded flakes is a precious rarity in Italy; nothing can restrain the younger guards from rushing into open courtyards and resuming long-forgotten games beneath a blizzard-silvered sky.

The glissando of spilling laughter trickles through stone in rivulets, a gleeful anomaly in slate-shadowed Volterra. Enthusiasm, sweet and unhindered, insinuates itself everywhere, until a smile reaches Aro's ascetic features.

"I suppose that little will be accomplished today," he announces with a sigh that is feigned and feathery. There are papers scattered in drifts over a scarred desk, but Sulpicia's warm weight, eagerly pressed in his arms, is distraction enough.

"You do not seem unduly perturbed," he adds, kissing the corners of her contented-kitten grin. Beneath questing fingers, her thoughts are orderly, neatly-faceted crystals aligned to refract the light.

"Your inability to remain attentive is oddly amusing," she says, her words lilting and lazy.

"You are to blame for that," he complains, but there is vague tenderness winding its tendrils through Aro's speech. His cleverest plans, snaking, incisive creations, have been concocted like this, when Sulpicia's mind is his own, a bitter terrain of blackness and peace.

"What is it that you were reading before I interrupted?" Sulpicia asks, collected and clipped. She flees from excessive affection, her mate knows, and his thoughts wheel to dust and documents.

"A letter from Carlisle. He describes his travels, in great detail, as you might expect." A smirk paints cool condescension upon his features, before the troublesome thoughts ebb. "You can read it if you like. He addresses you intermittently."

She scoffs. "I would rather not. That man is entertaining when he is conflicted, not when he describes, with limitless precision, the flora and fauna of some gods-forgotten colonial outpost."

"That was a cruel observation," Aro muses, "and perfectly correct." The silk-edged pride in his voice is unmistakeable.

As the evening unfurls, the paper in question is tossed upon a carpet's delicate weave and promptly forgotten.

.-.

An eerie sunrise coaxes shy shimmers from shivering snow, and Sulpicia is entranced. She does not often seek loveliness, but the iron bleakness of winter, scratched in shades of pale, draws her away from the emphatic caresses that mark a reunion.

It is the whisper of Aro's hand along the arabesque of her spine that pulls her away from the window and the dreamscape breathed by frost beyond the glass.

"There is much to be done," he reminds, and the pendulous weight of an empire that finds its precarious balance around them returns, unbidden and perhaps unwanted. Nonetheless, she intertwines cold fingers with his and walks towards a world marked by a dark passion play of omnipotence and ghastly masquerades.

_This,_ Sulpicia recalls, is the taste of joy—heavy and intoxicating, ornate as old amber. If Aro shares the thought, he keeps his silence, but distant, deadly adoration sparks behind garnet irises.

_-fin-_

_

* * *

_**Author's Note:** And we're finished! I must thank all of you, for reading, reviewing, favouriting, nominating and formspring-ing questions. You've been the most wonderful bunch of readers imaginable, and this story wouldn't have been completed without your support, critique and overall awesomeness.

I hope that you enjoyed reading _A Thousand Stairs_ story as much as I enjoyed writing it.


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